


The Allure of Fungi

by Wotwotleigh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biology, Fungi, Gen, Humor, M/M, Old Books, POV Outsider, Pre-Armageddon, a touch of food porn, because Aziraphale is in this after all, vaguely creepy supernatural shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wotwotleigh/pseuds/Wotwotleigh
Summary: Kyle is a young man facing an uncertain future, but things take a turn when he lands a job at A.Z. Fell and Co. He's still not sure where his life is heading, but one thing is certain: it's about to get a whole lot weirder.
Relationships: Implied background Aziraphale/Crowley
Comments: 215
Kudos: 352





	1. The Secret Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration by the amazing [hollow-head](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/hollow-head).

It was an awkward cup of cocoa. Not that there was anything wrong with the cocoa itself. It was heavenly, in fact—creamy and rich and just hot enough. Mr. Fell seemed to produce it from nowhere. They sat side by side in silence on an ancient and almost uncannily comfortable couch by Mr. Fell’s desk. 

Mr. Fell was clearly enjoying his cocoa very much, a little more than Kyle felt comfortable with at such close quarters, in fact. He distracted himself by looking at the desk, which featured a computer that Kyle was fairly certain originated from sometime in the early years of the second Cold War. A little green cursor was blinking on and off in the corner of an otherwise blank screen. 

“So,” said Kyle, anxious to break the silence, “what, er, do you need me to do, mostly? Mind the till?” 

“The till? Oh, yes. I suppose.” 

He found himself wondering where on earth the till even was. There was an antique monstrosity of a cash register near the couch, but that couldn’t possibly be it. It was covered with a thick film of dust and looked to be over a century old. Surely it was more decorative than functional. 

“Tidy the books?” he ventured further. 

There was a subtle darkening of the atmosphere in the shop. Kyle felt as though he were being watched by a thousand unblinking eyes, burning with a fire that was somehow both invisible and unbearably bright. His ears rang, and the air smelled sharp and metallic. 

“𝕹𝕺,” said Mr. Fell, in a voice that Kyle felt simultaneously inside and outside of him, pressing outward from within the base of his skull and crushing him from all sides like the weight of a vast, cold ocean. 

“Oh. Okay.” 

Mr. Fell smiled brightly and pointed to a dim corner. “But you can water the mold garden!” 

“Do you actually have a—a mold garden?” Kyle asked faintly, once he found his voice again. “Won’t it hurt the books?” 

“Certainly not!” said Mr. Fell. “Perish the thought. And if it did, I know someone who would be happy to give it a very stern talking-to.” 

Kyle stared into his cup of cocoa for a minute. One voice inside him was urging him to set his mug down, say thank you to the nice man, and walk out, never to look back. A slightly louder voice reminded him that the nice man had offered to pay him in cash at the end of the day. Quite a lot of cash, really. 

He cleared his throat. “Can I ask why you keep a mold garden? I’m just curious.” 

“Oh! Well, you see, I have a fr—well, an acquaintance. Or perhaps I should say a business associate. More of a competitor, really. Anyway, he’s most interested in plants. Says they improve the atmosphere of a place. So, I thought perhaps I should try my hand at it. Brighten up the shop a bit.” 

“Fungi are more closely related to animals than to plants,” Kyle heard himself say, as if from a great distance. 

“ _Real_ ly!” said Mr. Fell. “Good Heavens. You learn something new every day, eh? The wonders of Creation never cease.” He slapped his knees with his hands decisively and rose. “Well, off you go, then,” he went on, handing Kyle a beige watering can with a tartan print. “You know what they say about idle hands!” 

\--- 

Given the smell the mold was putting off, it should have been easier to find. But the geography of the bookstore seemed to defy any sort of logic. The narrow aisles twisted back around on themselves so that he kept somehow ending up back where he had started. He was just beginning to hyperventilate when the phone rang. 

“Would you mind answering that, dear boy?” Mr. Fell’s voice called out from—well, seemingly all around him. Kyle shivered deeply and sprinted back to the foyer. At least that was easy enough to find. 

The phone, which lived on the same desk as the antique cash register, was a shiny, ancient black thing with a rotary dial. He hadn’t seen anything remotely like it since he visited his great grandmother’s house in Shropshire when he was about five years old. He gingerly picked up the receiver, half afraid it would shatter in his hands. 

“A. Z. Fell and Company.” 

“Hello,” drawled a voice over the line. “Can you tell me what your business hours are? Can’t seem to find them online.” 

“Of course,” said Kyle. “They’re—” He stopped, realizing with a sinking feeling that he had no bloody idea. “Er, hold please?” He set the receiver down. “Mr. Fell!” he called out. 

“Yes?” Mr. Fell replied, from directly behind him. Kyle stifled a yelp of surprise and whirled around. 

“It’s a customer, he wants to know your hours,” he blurted out in a single breath. 

Mr. Fell scowled. “Again? Tell him they are posted on the door, and if he would like to know what they are, he will just have to come by and read the sign like everyone else!” He stalked away and vanished back into the shadows. 

Wearily, Kyle went to the front door and stepped out to look at the sign. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light outside, but when they did, his heart sank. He returned to the phone, took a deep breath, and picked it up. “I think we might be open until three-thirty today? Or possibly nine.” 

There was an almost sinister-sounding chuckle on the other end of the line, and the connection went dead. Kyle slowly hung up. Then, to his surprise and annoyance, he felt his throat tightening and his eyes beginning to well. Blinking furiously, he groped his way to a recessed reading bench among the bookshelves and sat down. 

What was he _doing_ here? He’d convinced himself that taking a job—any job—would alleviate the awful, unmoored feeling he’d had ever since completing his A levels. But in this moment, at least, he felt more lost than ever. The bookshop looked cozy, but the atmosphere of the place was oppressive and strange. He felt like he’d intruded into some weird liminal realm where he wasn’t entirely welcome. If he felt this way already after fifteen minutes on the job, how was he supposed to make it through the next, well, however long the workday was here, let alone the rest of the year? 

Mr. Fell appeared abruptly, which seemed to be a bit of a habit with him. “Are you all right, Kyle?” he asked. 

“Yes, sorry,” said Kyle, making a valiant effort to compose himself. “It’s just—I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to be doing right now.” 

Once more, there was a subtle change in the air. This time, it hummed with a quiet energy, and Kyle could swear that Mr. Fell was enveloped in a pale, golden glow. He smiled. It was the kindest smile that Kyle had ever seen. “My dear boy,” he said gently. Kyle leaned forward, suddenly certain that he was about to hear the most important message of his life. “Doubt is a natural part of the human condition. There’s nothing wrong with questioning your path. The thing to remember is—” 

The bell up front jingled, indicating the arrival of a customer. Mr. Fell’s smile, and the golden glow that came with it, switched off. “Oh dear,” he muttered, sounding as if he really wanted to say something significantly more profane. “Pardon me.” 

\--- 

It didn’t seem that Mr. Fell was likely to return any time soon. Kyle could hear the rising tones of an argument from the front of the store. He made out the words “display copy only” and “most _definitely_ out of stock for the foreseeable future.” Every conflict-avoidant nerve in his body started humming at once. 

Eager to be as far as possible from whatever was happening, he quietly picked up the watering can and crept back amongst the shadows in search of the mold garden. This time, for whatever reason, he found it almost immediately. It was tucked up against a back wall, under an ancient, filmy window that let in a wash of watery sunlight. 

Mr. Fell had a pretty broad definition of “mold.” There were definitely some true molds there—furry black and white ones, velvety green and blue ones, each blossoming out of its own elegant little china saucer. But there were also mushrooms, toadstools, and frilly tree fungi, as well as a variety of slime molds ( _Not even real fungi_ , Kyle couldn’t help but note) in yellow, iridescent blue, and bubblegum pink. Kyle stared, oddly enchanted. It was . . . actually sort of beautiful. 

He raised the watering can and gently tipped it over one of the saucers, expecting the water to trickle out in a shower. Instead, it floated down in a fine, glittering mist. Tiny fungal filaments reached up gratefully. Mushrooms raised their glossy heads and flared their delicate skirts. The slime molds glistened and bubbled. A magnificent stinkhorn unfurled its lacy veil— 

Kyle gagged and pulled his shirt over his nose. His eyes watered. He realized he’d never actually experienced a stinkhorn in person. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, rapidly backing away. 

He bumped up against something solid and turned to see a cabinet with a glass front. It was filled with cloth-bound books with gilt lettering on their spines. Despite being in a corner packed with fungus and flooded with sunlight, they looked pristine. Kyle skimmed the titles. _De Profundis_ , by Oscar Wilde. _Poems_ , by Oscar Wilde. _The Importance of Being Earnest_. _The Happy Prince_. _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. 

“Huh,” said Kyle. 

A soft slithering sound alerted Kyle that he was no longer alone. He was half afraid to turn and see what was behind him, but he did anyway. It—he—was what Kyle could only describe as an ageing rock star. Lots of black clothing and cheekbones and improbably red hair. And sunglasses. Sunglasses in the world’s dimmest bookshop. 

Kyle suddenly remembered that he was an employee. “May I help you?” he asked hurriedly. 

“Mm, yeah, maybe,” said the rock star. “Have you got any first edition Wildes?” 

The voice sounded familiar, but Kyle was too distracted by the prospect of actually being useful to try to place it. “Ooh! Yes, actually,” he said. “Right here, as a matter of fact.” He gestured to the cabinet. 

“Nice,” said Rock Star, barely glancing at the contents of the cabinet. “I’ll take the lot.” 

Kyle froze. “Wh—the lot?” 

“Yes, you heard me. Don’t just stand there. Load ‘em up.” 

“Right, sorry.” He turned the handle of the cabinet door and winced at the shriek of the metal. “I think this’ll take a couple trips,” he said apologetically. _Plus, I still don’t even know if this place has a functional cash register_ , he added mentally. 

Rock Star flashed a grin that seemed to contain just a few too many teeth. “By the telephone.” 

“Wait, did I . . . say that out loud?” asked Kyle. 

“Say what out loud?” 

Kyle shivered, adjusted his stack of Wildes, and hastily darted for the relative brightness of the foyer. 

He didn’t get far. Mr. Fell, who must have wrapped up his argument with the other customer, stepped into his path. 

“What,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “are you doing with those books, young man?” 

“S-selling them?” Kyle faltered. 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“I was just—” 

A strange, unnatural shadow drifted across Mr. Fell’s face, obscuring his features. “Those are not for sale.” He seemed to be growing taller. 

Kyle took a few steps back. “I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t know. A customer came in and said he wanted the lot. I thought—” He bumped up against someone and nearly dropped the stack of books. 

Mr. Fell’s expression instantly transformed. “ _Crow_ ley!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with an odd mixture of relief, irritation, and delight. “What on Earth are you doing?” 

“Shopping for books, of course,” said Rock Star—Crowley—with another toothy grin. 

Mr. Fell rolled his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake—” (“Ech,” interjected Crowley) “—leave the poor young fellow alone. It’s his first day.” 

“Come off it, Angel, I was just having a bit of fun.” He brandished an expensive-looking box of chocolates. “Thought these would go well with that tawny port you were talking about the other day.” 

“You devil!” said Mr. Fell, breaking out in an incandescent smile. 

Crowley looked as though he was trying very hard not to look pleased with himself. He turned and glowered at the mold garden. “What are you lot looking at?” he snarled. The stinkhorn pulled up its skirt. 

“Stop that, my dear. You know they aren’t used to being spoken to that way,” chided Mr. Fell. “All right, I suppose I can spare a few minutes.” He turned and fixed Kyle with a stern look. “I shall be in the back if you need me. The Wilde books,” he reiterated, “are _not_ for sale.” 

Kyle wasn’t sure how the books ended up back in the cabinet. He didn’t remember Mr. Fell taking them from him, and he certainly hadn’t put them back himself. It wasn’t until a few moments after Mr. Fell and his friend Crowley left him that he even realized that he wasn’t holding them anymore. But there they were, neatly arranged on their shelf, the cabinet tightly shut, as if nobody had ever touched them. 

“What the actual _fuck_ ,” Kyle said, to no one in particular. 

\--- 

He was afraid to even touch the inventory, much less try to sell anything again. Rather than risk facing another customer, he decided to explore the shop. It seemed improbably large on the inside, much larger than it appeared from the street. A curving staircase led up to a second level, which was illuminated by a domed skylight. On the second level, some of the books were caged behind metal grates. Peering inside, Kyle noted that they were also chained to the shelves. He wasn’t sure whether this was meant to protect the books, or the customers. 

He could hear Mr. Fell and Crowley talking in the back. The volume of their voices kept increasing, no doubt in inverse proportion to the amount of tawny port left in the bottle. He didn’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation, but there wasn’t much choice. Sound carried well in the quiet shop. 

“Look,” Crowley was saying, “look. What’m sayin’ is, is that it’s a bloody idiotic design. Don’t know what She was thinking. Vital organs all up front, nothing protecting ‘em—and the males—dangly bits all . . . soft and, and dangly. Not even retractable. And the females have it even worse! Internal organs trying to kill them on the regular, having to push a bloody watermelon through a keyhole whenever they care to reproduce—” 

“Isn’t that one _your_ fault?” Mr. Fell chimed in accusingly. 

“Oh, psh. Please. Blame me for a bloody obvious engineering flaw. Typical. ‘OooOOooh, you’ll bleed once a month and childbirth will hurt like a sonofabitch, thank the Serpent for _that_ one.’ Coulda told you that would happen just looking at the blueprints.” 

Hoping to distract himself, Kyle went back and looked at the mold garden again. He stayed until he found himself getting used to the smell, which he decided couldn’t possibly be a good sign. Finally, guiltily, he slunk back to the reading bench and pulled out his phone.  
He sent a text to his flatmate, Aabirah. 

_Hey. I got a job._

His screen lit up almost immediately with a response: _wut? that was quick, good one mate congrats. wheres it at?_

Kyle typed frantically, relieved to be conversing with a normal human being. _Yeah it’s in this super weird bookshop in Soho, A. Z. Fell and Co. I’m pretty sure it’s a front, maybe for a shroom farm? This guy literally has a fungus garden, it’s pretty cool actually, but yeah I think something he’s growing in there might be making me hallucinate. Anyway he’s literally paying me to water his shrooms and not sell any books. Also his boyfriend is here and they’re in the back getting hammered and having a loud argument about intelligent design or who the fuck knows what_

There was a long pause, which seemed to draw out into an eternity. And then, at last, she answered: _bruh_

_IKR????_ Kyle replied. 

\--- 

Kyle had just used up all his lives in Candy Crush and moved on to Bubble Witch when Crowley came around the corner at a slow saunter, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. Kyle fancied for a moment that he caught a flash of golden eyes, but he quickly shoved that thought back into an increasingly crowded corner of his mind. 

“Ciao, Angel,” Crowley called over his shoulder. “Good luck with the assignment.” 

“Pip pip,” Mr. Fell’s voice rang out cheerily from the back room. 

Crowley grinned at Kyle again (Kyle wished he wouldn’t) and ambled out, causing the door chime to give a strangely harsh and discordant jangle. 

Mr. Fell appeared a moment later, looking chipper and relaxed, but surprisingly sober. “Ah, Kyle,” he said. “Still here, my boy?” 

“Um, yeah. Was I supposed to go?” 

Mr. Fell pulled a gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and frowned thoughtfully at it. “Well, I should think we’ve been open quite long enough, yes,” he mused. “Yes, why don’t you go home?” 

“Oh. Really? Okay. I just . . . I thought . . .” 

“Ah! Of course. Not to worry.” He patted his jacket pocket and then reached in to produce a thick envelope, which he handed to Kyle. “Here you are. I believe you’ll find it all present and accounted for.” 

Kyle blinked. He had almost forgotten that Mr. Fell had promised to pay him in cash. He was afraid it would be rude to open the envelope and look at the contents in front of Mr. Fell, so he just mumbled a hasty thanks and shoved it into the pocket of his jumper. 

“Off you go, then,” said Mr. Fell, with little waggle of his fingers. 

“Er, before I go, Mr. Fell,” said Kyle, drawing a strengthening breath, “I just wondered if tomorrow, you might have something for me to, well. Do.” 

“Do?” Mr. Fell knit his brows and tapped his pursed lips with an index finger. “Right! Tomorrow, I am expecting some new inventory. You can help me get that sorted.” He was gently steering Kyle out the door by his elbow as he spoke. “Ta, mind how you go!” 

The door snapped shut, and the sign in the window flipped smartly from “Open” to “Closed.” 

\---

Kyle was alarmed to find Crowley still lurking by the kerb. He was leaning on a gorgeous vintage car, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his impossibly tight trousers. He smiled slowly at Kyle. “Give you a lift?” 

Every stranger-danger alarm bell in Kyle’s brain was going off at once. Rationally, he knew that it would be a Very Bad Idea to get into the beautiful car with Crowley. At the same time, though, some deep-down adventurous part of his soul that he’d sort of forgotten about was screaming at him to do it. Anyway, how bad could the guy be? Mr. Fell seemed to like him a lot. And Mr. Fell was . . . nice? 

“Oh, sure,” said Kyle, hardly believing that the words were coming out of his own mouth, “thanks.” 

He climbed in and was horrified to note that there were no seatbelts. The seats were covered in gorgeously supple leather, so there was that. Crowley pulled a CD out of the glove box and slid it into, well, Kyle wasn’t sure what. The car had to be almost 100 years old, it didn’t even have a radio. “We Are the Champions” blared over seemingly non-existent speakers. 

“Enjoy your first day?” asked Crowley, who was driving way too fast. Kyle squeezed his eyes shut as they narrowly dodged an elderly woman with a walker. 

“It was interesting,” he managed. 

Crowley chuckled, and Kyle broke out in goosebumps. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day when Fell would hire staff. What is it you _really_ want to be doing with your life?” 

The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Kyle squirmed in his seat. It was one of his least favorite questions. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m on an off year. I guess I want to go to University. I’ve always been keen on biology, did really well on my A levels. I just . . . I dunno.” 

“Mmm.” Crowley nodded sympathetically, swerving around a cyclist at the last nanosecond. “Afraid of disappointing everyone, are you? Scared you’ll be a little fish in a big pond when you get to university, find out your family’s hopes and pride were all terribly misplaced? Wish you could quit while you’re ahead so you don’t find out you’re a big old impostor after all, and let yourself and the whole world down?” 

Kyle glanced at him sharply, then quickly looked away. Where the fuck had all _that_ come from? “What? Uh, well, I don’t know about that.” He did. God, did he know about that. “I’m just thinking things over. Don’t want to get burnt out.” 

Crowley nodded and mmm’d again. He smelled nice. Really nice. So did Mr. Fell--once you got close enough to smell him over the mold garden, anyway--but in more of a gingerbread, lemon soap, and old books kind of way. Crowley smelled like that one incredibly hot girl Kyle had met at a club one time who kept trying to get him to try some kind of pills. He’d ended up sneaking out and ordering a Lyft while she was in the loo. Right now, he had the weirdest urge to lean his head on Crowley’s shoulder and smell his jacket, which was a _terrible_ idea, and at the same time every hair on his body was standing on end. 

“Well, don’t feel like you have to do what everyone expects of you,” said Crowley. “There’s always another path, you know.” He made a left turn on red at about 150 miles per hour. 

“Oh, I don’t—” Kyle began, but then broke off. They were outside his building. He realized, with a cold, creeping feeling up the back of his neck, that Crowley had never asked for his address, and he had never volunteered it. 

Crowley gave him another toothy grin. “I believe this is you.” 

\--- 

“Ah-mazing,” said Aabirah, once Kyle had finished filling her in over takeout a couple of hours later. “But do I need to worry about you getting murdered, mate?” 

“I don’t . . . think so?” said Kyle, half-heartedly chasing a slice of water chestnut around his plate with a pair of chopsticks. “I didn’t get a murdery vibe, exactly. More like he, I dunno, _wanted_ something from me.” 

“Well, be careful, bruh. I’d rather not end up on the telly talking about how my flatmate got abducted by some kind of psycho mushroom-farming cultists and is probably locked up in a basement somewhere.” 

Kyle chuckled, but it came out a little strained. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine. This is fine. I’m probably just overreacting to things ‘cause I’m stressed.” 

“Creepy rock star boyfriend aside,” she said, plopping a potsticker onto her plate, “the job sounds wicked.” 

“Does it?” 

“Are you kidding? Getting paid to hang around in a spooky old bookshop all day and not sell anything? You’re living the dream, mate.” 

“I thought you loved your job.” 

“Well, yeah, but as, like, a second choice, I would totally get paid actual cash money to water some eccentric shopkeeper’s shroom farm and browse Insta for 8 hours a day. How much did you say he’s paying you?” 

Kyle winced, embarrassed to even say it. “Twenty-five an hour,” he mumbled. 

Aabirah had just picked up the potsticker, but now it slipped from between her chopsticks and landed on her plate with a dull thud. “What?!” 

“Well, he asked me how much I thought I ought to be paid, and . . .” 

“And he didn’t laugh you out of the shop?” 

“Isn’t that how it works, you highball them and then they—you know, I thought he was gonna negotiate or something. But he just said all right and asked me if I could start right away.” 

“Definitely a front,” said Aabirah, biting decisively into her potsticker. “One hundred percent.”


	2. To Forgive, Divine

Kyle wasn’t sure when he was supposed to arrive at work the next day, so he showed up at 8 AM sharp. The “Closed” sign was still in the window, but the door opened as he raised his hand to knock. Mr. Fell stood there, giving Kyle one of those smiles that felt like being wrapped in a warm fleece blanket. “Dear boy!” he said, gesturing for Kyle to enter. 

As promised, there was new inventory. Several boxes of books were stacked in the foyer. “Where should I put them?” asked Kyle. “Are they arranged by subject, or . . .” 

“Oh, heavens, no,” said Mr. Fell, as if the very notion was ridiculous. “Just put them wherever you find a space.” 

Kyle looked around. There were teetering stacks of books on every available surface. Books wedged horizontally on top of the rows of books that stood on the shelves. Books under the telephone, and more books under the table where the telephone rested. “Oh,” said Kyle. “Okay.” 

The first box he opened was stuffed with a peculiar assortment of books, seemingly selected at random. The first three he grabbed were something called _Uncle Fred in the Springtime_ , some sort of obscure theological treatise, and a gorgeous new paperback with a pair of dainty white mushrooms on the cover, called _The Allure of Fungi_. Intrigued, Kyle set that one aside for further investigation. Underneath that was something wrapped in tissue paper, which he carefully removed. 

It was an old book with an elaborately illustrated dust jacket showing two bearded men with robes and halos, standing on either side of a doorway flanked by columns. In the doorway was the title: _The Desert Fathers: Translations from the Latin by Helen Waddell._ Kyle was just turning it over to look at the back when Mr. Fell swooped in. 

“Do be careful with that one,” he said, gently lifting the book out of Kyle’s hands. “That’s the original dust jacket. I had a _dreadful_ time tracking down such a fine copy.” 

“Sorry,” Kyle said reflexively. 

“Not to worry, my boy,” said Mr. Fell, more to the book than to Kyle. “Not that it’s a particularly strong translation. You’d do much better to read the original Coptic, or even the Latin. But, for the sake of completeness, you know . . .” 

Kyle perked up. “Did you say Coptic, Mr. Fell?” 

Mr. Fell turned to peer at him over his little silver-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, yes. The _Apophthegmata Patrum_ —sayings of the early Christian monks and saints and so forth, who lived out in the deserts of Egypt. Do you know it?” 

“No,” said Kyle, “but I know someone who would. My flatmate. She’s Coptic. And she works with old manuscripts and stuff.” 

“Really! Does she . . . have anything she’d like to sell, by any chance?” 

“Oh, I don’t think so. She’s not a collector. She works for the British Museum, in training to do conservation or something like that. On Byzantine manuscripts.” 

Mr. Fell actually wiggled with delight. “Oh, how lovely! I should love to have her take a look at my _Collectio Monastica_. The horrid man who had it before I did allowed some kind of beetle to get into the spine. And of course, I could fix it myself, but I’d always _know_ , if you know what I mean.” 

Kyle had absolutely no idea what he meant, but he smiled and nodded. 

“You don’t suppose she would know where to find a good copy of Rosweyde’s _Vitæ Patrum_ , would you?” Mr. Fell went on earnestly. “I’ve rung up every rare bookseller on my list, but nobody has it.” 

“Have you tried online?” asked Kyle, immediately feeling like an idiot. Obviously, he had looked online. 

“On what?” 

Or, maybe not. “Uh, you know,” said Kyle. “The internet.” 

Mr. Fell looked profoundly baffled. “You mean . . . in the dot com? Are there books there?” 

Kyle was silent for a long moment, trying to determine if he was being fucked with. “Um. Yes. You can buy pretty much anything online.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Mr. Fell, with quiet reverence. “I always thought it was nothing but pornography and films about cats.” 

\--- 

Shelving books under Mr. Fell’s supervision was maddening, not that Kyle had expected anything else. He fluttered around like an oversized and very concerned moth, never letting Kyle out of his line of sight. 

“Oh, not—not there, I should never be able to find it there!” he said, darting in and snatching up an Alexandre Dumas book that Kyle had just squeezed in between a book about the history of musical theatre and a very old copy of _Now We Are Six_. He cradled the book for a minute, looking at it appraisingly with big, doe-like eyes, before shoving it onto a nearby shelf horizontally, on top of a boxed set of Sherlock Holmes stories and an ancient-looking hardcover called _Anatomy of the Chordates_. He smiled benevolently at his own handiwork. “There. Much better.” 

Kyle couldn’t shake the sense that even in this supremely disordered place, there was some kind of system at work. Mr. Fell apparently had an organizational scheme that he understood perfectly well, but to anyone else it was simply . . . indescribable? Incomprehensible? Kyle couldn’t quite pin down the right adjective. Anyway, all he could do was roll with it. He kept sticking books wherever they seemed to fit, and Mr. Fell kept promptly rehoming them. 

“Mr. Fell,” he said after a while, hoping to break the awkward silence, “if you need a hand tracking down books, maybe I could help.” 

Mr. Fell looked at him with interest, picking up a book of botanical engravings that Kyle had just slid onto the shelf and putting it back on the same shelf in a slightly different location. “Really? You mean, on the—” 

“The internet, yes. But you’ll probably need a new computer. Or I could bring mine in.” 

Mr. Fell wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “I don’t see why mine shouldn’t work. Crowley was showing me cat films on it just the other week. I saw one with a very funny little fellow who kept jumping into smaller and smaller boxes.” 

Kyle gave him a sidelong glance. “On that thing? Are you sure? It looks at least 35 years old, how can it handle anything that’s not, like, ASCII?” Mr. Fell met the question with silent bewilderment. “Well, anyway,” Kyle went on, “we’ll figure something out. Have you got an email address?” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Fell, brightening. This was apparently a term he recognized. “Yes, Crowley got me one of those, but I hardly ever use it. Complete strangers kept sending me the most improprietous messages!” 

“Yeah, that’ll happen. Do you remember your address, by any chance?” 

Mr. Fell frowned, searching his memory. “I believe it was angel cake seventeen hundred and ninety-three, at hot mail. On the dot com.” 

“We’ll . . . get you a new one. Just for business stuff.” 

\--- 

Kyle had to admit that the rest of the day was actually rather nice. 

After they finished shelving the books, he went to water the mold garden again. It was even more weirdly beautiful than he remembered. The fungi almost seemed happy to see him. Little mushroom caps leaned ever so slightly in his direction, and fungal filaments swayed and nodded almost imperceptibly. The watering can dispensed its hypnotic, glittering mist, and the whole garden sparkled in the filmy mid-morning light. He didn’t even mind the smell of the stinkhorn all that much this time around. 

A few customers drifted in, but Mr. Fell hastily dispatched them. He gave Kyle permission to use his computer, which somehow, incredibly, was able to support Firefox. Kyle didn’t even recognize the operating system, and he could scarcely say how he managed to pull up the apps he wanted; it just . . . worked. Mr. Fell flitted among the books while Kyle set up an eminently sensible a.z.fell email address and created accounts with several online used and rare bookstores. 

It seemed like a solid idea at the time to also make a Google business listing for A.Z. Fell and Co. And a Yelp account. And a Facebook page. Presumably, he reasoned, Mr. Fell would be happy to have his hours listed online somewhere, so that people would stop calling and bothering him about it. He was just filling out the Facebook profile when Mr. Fell poked his head around the corner. 

“I don’t know about you,” he said, his eyes twinkling with anticipation, “but I’m positively famished. Fancy a spot of lunch? My treat.” 

\--- 

They ended up at a little Japanese restaurant on Old Compton Street that looked far, far too expensive for Kyle. It was clear from the way the staff greeted him that Mr. Fell was a regular. He ordered for both of them in what was, as far as Kyle could tell, fluent Japanese. 

Not long after, a waitress appeared with an immense platter of sushi and two small teapots. The top of each pot was covered with an inverted cup, with what appeared to be half a lime balanced on top of that. Kyle lifted the cup that covered the top of his pot and was surprised to discover that it contained not tea, but soup. 

Mr. Fell leaned forward. “Matsutake dobin mushi,” he said, pronouncing each word as if he were savouring the taste of it on his tongue. “Have you ever had it?” 

“No,” admitted Kyle. “It looks amazing.” 

“Oh, I can assure you,” said Mr. Fell, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but his meaning was clear enough. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and fixed them on Kyle. “Do as I do,” he instructed. 

Kyle followed along as Mr. Fell poured some of the broth from his own pot into the little cup, then fished out a few of the solid ingredients with chopsticks and dropped them into the cup, too—a piece of chicken, a bit of fish cake, and a big chunk of brown mushroom. Finally, he squeezed in some juice from the citrus fruit—not a lime, as he would inform Kyle later, but a sudachi. 

Kyle had never seen anyone savour food the way Mr. Fell did. Every bite appeared to be a religious experience. And, well, the soup was amazing. The flavour was delicate, complex, and unlike anything Kyle had ever tasted. And the mushrooms! Once he got over the initial shock of their weird, pungent spiciness, he decided that he really, really liked them. 

“Mr. Fell, these mushrooms—” he began. 

“Matsutake,” said Mr. Fell, almost conspiratorially. “One of Japan’s most sought-after delicacies. It is said that they only grow under certain types of pine trees. No one has yet discovered the secret of cultivating them, so they must be collected from the forest floor in the autumn and winter months.” 

“They’re ectomycorrhizal,” said Kyle, brightening. 

“Oh,” said Mr. Fell, his eyebrows rising questioningly, “are they?” 

“They have a symbiotic relationship with the tree roots. The mushrooms are just, well, like the fruit. Their actual body is under the ground, all wrapped around the tree roots like a net. The mushrooms and the trees, they sort of nourish and protect each other.” 

Mr. Fell smiled radiantly. “How perfectly lovely,” he said, and his voice was so tender and sincere that Kyle’s heart actually palpitated.   
He felt a sudden, dizzying wave of gentle fondness crash over him, and he looked down at his lap, blushing fiercely. 

“Yeah, it is pretty neat, I guess,” he mumbled. 

\--- 

When they got back to the shop, Kyle coaxed Mr. Fell over to the computer. “Look,” he said, “I’ve made you accounts with ABE, Alibris, and Biblio. I already found a copy of that _Vitæ Patrum_ thing on ABE.” He pulled up the listing. “Only it’s,” Kyle winced, “£6,000.” 

He might as well have said “£6.” Mr. Fell’s face was transformed with delight. “But my boy, this is wonderful!” he breathed. “Ring them up, tell them I shall wire them the funds at once.” 

“Wh—oh, you don’t call them, you just . . .” He clicked “Add to Basket.” “You do have a credit card, right, Mr. Fell?” 

“Of course! You mean to say I can carry out the entire transaction without having to speak to _anyone_?” 

Kyle nodded. Mr. Fell gave another one of his elated wiggles. “My lad,” he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in unabashed glee, “let’s buy some books!” 

\--- 

With Kyle’s help, Mr. Fell found, and ordered, a dizzying array of books. Price seemed to be of absolutely no consequence to him.   
It was becoming increasingly clear to Kyle that the man was absolutely bloody loaded. It occurred to him to wonder how a bookseller who never sold any books had so much money to play with. But then again, maybe better not to speculate too much on these things. He had a job, his boss seemed to like him, and holy shit, he was actually having fun. 

They were trying to find something called _De Interpretatione Divinae Scripturae Epistolarum_ when a woman’s voice called out “Hullooo!” from somewhere near the shop entrance. 

Mr. Fell didn’t take his eyes off the computer screen. His reply sounded completely reflexive: “We’re closed!” 

There was a pause. “But it said on Google that you’re open ‘til four today!” she called back at last. 

\--- 

_TIFU_ , Kyle tapped forlornly into his phone’s text window. 

_fam are you ok_ , Aabirah replied a few minutes later. _tell me u didn’t get in the car w the creepy bloke again_

_No. I set up a google business page for my boss. Probably gonna get fired lol._

The look of utter disappointment and betrayal on Mr. Fell’s face was going to stick with him for a long time, he just knew it. It was the kind of thing that would pop into his head at 3 AM when he was desperately trying to sleep for years to come. He hadn’t felt so bad since the time he accidentally smashed his little sister’s ice lolly stick model of the Palace of Westminster. 

_wow ok. can u take it down?_

_Ahahahaha no. I can give up managing it but it’ll still be there like forever. I haven’t even started on the FB and Yelp stuff. FML FML FML_

About an hour had passed since Mr. Fell, having dealt with the customer, announced in a clipped tone that he was going out. Kyle had been sitting alone ever since, frantically struggling to undo the damage. He was now realizing, with dawning horror, that it was in fact quite impossible to remove a Google Business listing once it was up. 

“Kyle,” said Mr. Fell from over his shoulder, and he hastily dropped his phone. When had he even come back in? 

“Sorry, Mr. Fell, I still haven’t worked out how to take it down. I’ll figure something out, I promise.” 

“Gracious, are you still at it? Take a break, my dear. Have a biscuit.” 

Kyle swiveled around in the antique desk chair and found that Mr. Fell was standing behind him with a dainty little box of biscuits, smiling indulgently. He looked like a Victorian Christmas card. “There’s a lovely pastry shop round the corner,” he explained. “I got peckish during my stroll, so I nipped in and got a little something for both of us.” 

Somehow, all this made Kyle feel even worse. He took a delicately iced ginger biscuit in the shape of a teacup and nibbled it guiltily. It tasted incredible. “Thanks, Mr. Fell. Sorry about causing you all this trouble.” 

“You’re most welcome. And please, don’t give it another thought. To err is human. I’ll get it sorted.” 

Kyle decided it was better not to ask how, exactly, he planned to sort it. He hoped it wouldn’t involve someone at Google headquarters getting their kneecaps smashed. 

“Now,” said Mr. Fell, once Kyle had finished his biscuit, “I think you’d better toddle home. It’s been a terribly busy day. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.” Almost as an afterthought, he reached over and picked up _The Allure of Fungi_ , which Kyle had left sitting on top of the teetering stack of books on the end table by the couch. “And, why don’t you take this with you? I think you’ll find it a rather fascinating read.”


	3. Mycorrhiza

It must have been around 5 AM when Kyle’s phone rang. He fumbled around to grab it, cursing groggily, and was about to hit the decline button when he saw “Mr. Fell” on the caller ID. He sat bolt upright, his pulse pounding in his eyeballs, and frantically punched the accept button instead. 

“Mr. Fell?” he croaked into the receiver. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?” 

“Kyle! Hello. It’s Mr. Fell. Oh, but I suppose you knew that. Yes, well. Dear me, I do hope I didn’t wake you.” 

Kyle peered blearily out the window. It was still dark. “No, it’s fine. I was up.” 

“Oh, good! I sometimes forget that h—that most people don’t keep the sorts of hours that I do.” There was a pause, and when Mr. Fell spoke again, it was in a hushed tone. “Did you know that customers can _leave reviews_ on the Google?” 

Oh. Oh, no. Kyle scrambled to put the phone on speaker and pull up the Google Business page on the screen. An ugly little cluster of single stars glared back at him. In his half-awake state, it all felt like some kind of hideous nightmare. “Oh God, oh no, I’m so sorry, Mr. Fell. This is all my fault. Maybe we can get some of them taken down—” 

“No, no, no, absolutely not, my boy! Why, that would be _censorship_! I wouldn’t dream of denying the good people the right to express their honest opinions.” 

It took a moment for this to penetrate Kyle’s panicked and sleep-addled brain. “Ah,” he said, after a minute. “Ah, yeah, right.” 

“Now, I must confess I was a little vexed when I learned that you had put these webs on the dot com without consulting me first. I was just about to sort it out,” and there was that vaguely ominous wording again, “when I saw all the little stars and stopped to take a look. And you know, now I think I see the wisdom in it. From now on, I shall know to trust your judgment in these matters.” 

Kyle rubbed his heavy eyelids. “Wow. Okay. I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Fell.” 

“By the way, what do you think of the book?” 

The change of subject was so abrupt that it took Kyle almost a full minute to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh! The fungus book? I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to look yet.” 

“Well, that’s all right. But do let me know how you like it. I’m sure you must be wanting your breakfast, so I’ll be off. Pip pip! I shall see you at the shop in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!” 

\--- 

It was no use trying to get back to sleep after that. Kyle was wide awake. He grabbed _The Allure of Fungi_ and shuffled out into the kitchen, still in his pyjamas. He was about to switch on the kettle, but found to his confusion that it was already on. 

“Kyle?” said Aabirah’s voice from behind him. He turned to find her sitting in the dining nook, looking about as exhausted as he felt. Her hair was unbrushed and she was clutching a cup of tea with a sort of grim determination. “What are you doing up?” 

“My boss called me,” he said vaguely. 

“At—” she paused to look at the time on her phone “—5:37 in the morning? Is he mad?” 

“Well, I mean, yeah,” said Kyle, dropping the book on the table and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What are you doing up, by the way?” 

She let out a deeply put-upon groan. “There’s a special all-day members’ . . . thing at the museum that someone brilliantly decided should start at 7:30 AM. And not only do I have to lecture at it, but they also want me to help set up. And the projector in the Stevenson theatre never plays nicely with the department laptop, not ever. So.” She squinted at Kyle. “Why was your boss calling you?” 

Kyle gazed off into the middle distance. “To tell me how glad he is about the bad reviews on Google. And ask if I’ve read this mushroom book he gave me. He wants to meet you, you know.” 

She reared back, aghast. “Woah, hold up, mate. You told your weird mushroom cultist boss about me?” 

“It’s just, he was talking about some kind of Coptic book, something about fathers in the desert, and I just sort of—” 

“The _Apopthegmata Patrum_ , yeah,” Aabirah interjected with a nod. 

“Right, that’s it! He was looking for some old Latin version of it. Which I found, by the way. And he has some other manuscript that he’d like you to look at. Something-or-other Monastica? Says it’s got beetles in the spine, or something.” 

Aabirah frowned at her teacup and poked her lip out thoughtfully. Finally, she sighed. “Okay, fam, you got me. I’m too bloody curious at this point to listen to my better judgment and stay the fuck away from whatever weird shit you’ve got yourself mixed up in. I’ll come and meet the mushroom bloke. But tomorrow, okay?” 

Kyle felt a wave of gratitude and relief wash over him. He realized he’d been feeling very alone in all this. It would be good to get someone else’s perspective on whatever the hell was happening in Mr. Fell’s shop. He let out his breath in a rush. “Oh my God, thank you.” 

\--- 

Kyle brought _The Allure of Fungi_ with him on the bus to work. He was about to crack it open when he glanced at his phone and was suddenly reminded of the reviews. Overcome with morbid curiosity, he set the book down and opened the Google Business page instead. 

"HORRIBLE SERVICE, SHOPKEEPER VERY RUDE,” read the first review. “PLACE SMELT OF MOULD. TRIED TO NOTIFY HSE BUT THEY SAID THEY HAD NO RECORD OF THIS SHOP. WOULD GIVE ZERO STARS IF POSSIBLE!!!” 

He continued to scroll: 

“Hours online do not match the actual store hours, I have never found this place open.” 

“The place literally stinks and it’s impossible to find what you’re looking for.” 

“shopkeeper said they hadn’t got any mills & boon but i found a whole crate of them beneath a bench in back. they were all weird paranormal ones like demon lover and kiss of the devil. shopkeeper found me looking at them and just stood there glaring until i left, creepiest thing ive ever experienced 0/10” 

He was still scrolling when the bus pulled up at his stop. His heart flopped into his stomach as he walked up to the shop and saw a beautiful antique car parked outside. 

He briefly toyed with the idea of going back home and calling in sick. No, that was dumb. All he had to do was not accept any more rides home with creepy strangers. Surely Crowley wouldn’t murder him or whatever right there in the shop, with Mr. Fell present. He sighed, steeled himself, and reached for the door handle. 

He could have sworn the door was locked when he first tried to turn the handle. Then he thought he heard the subtle shifting of the tumblers inside, and it yielded to him and opened. Stepping inside, he could tell immediately that the shop was empty. It felt very different without Mr. Fell inside it, although he couldn’t have described how. Crowley, presumably, was wherever Mr. Fell was, because he definitely wasn’t there, either. Small blessings. 

A note that must have been tucked between the door and its frame fluttered to the floor. Kyle picked it up and read: _Stepped out for a nosh, be back in a trice. Make yourself at home!! –A. Z. Fell_

Kyle dutifully sought out a reading nook on the upper level and curled up in it with _The Allure of Fungi_. It was, as Mr. Fell had promised, a fascinating read. The prose was passionate, tender, almost sensual in its descriptions of fungi and their interconnectedness with all other life. He could see why such a book would appeal to Mr. Fell. The author seemed to feel about mycelia and hymenophores the way Mr. Fell did about old books and good food. 

He was through the prologue and well on his way into the first chapter when the door chime jingled and the air in the shop came alive with Mr. Fell’s presence. 

“—offer still stands, you know,” said a voice that Kyle recognized as Crowley’s. He hunkered down deeper in the nook. 

“Hmm?” came Mr. Fell’s distracted reply. 

“C’mon, Angel, you know what I’m talking about. The assignment.” 

“Oh, I hardly think that will be necessary. I anticipate that everything will go off without a hitch.” 

“You sure? You griped about it enough when the memo came in.” 

“I did not _gripe_! I merely expressed some perfectly reasonable concerns about the nature of the job. I’m happy to report they were unfounded.” 

“Wouldn’t shut up about it for two weeks straight.” 

“If I want your help, I shall ask for it.” 

“Suit yourself, Aziraphale. I’m off.” 

“Mind how you go.” 

Kyle was relieved to hear Crowley leave, but no less confused by anything he had just heard. He closed the book and made his way slowly and thoughtfully to the spiral staircase, his mind awash with questions. Not least of them being, _What the hell kind of a name is Aziraphale Z. Fell?_

\--- 

Mr. Fell didn’t look up from the book he was poring over at his desk when Kyle approached him, but the kind smile was audible in his voice when he spoke. “Good morning, dear boy. There’s fresh tea on the tray, do help yourself. I’ll be with you shortly.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Fell.” He sat on the comfortable old couch and poured a cup of tea, then tried to read more of the fungus book. As interesting as it was, he soon realized that he was scanning the same sentence over and over without actually absorbing any of it. He was far too consumed with curiosity to concentrate. He desperately wanted to ask Mr. Fell about so many things—his “assignment,” his name, and just . . . whatever the hell was going on with Crowley. Instead, he contented himself with watching Mr. Fell do his work, which was, frankly, just as baffling as everything else he did. 

An ancient tome was spread open on the desk. With his hands shrouded in a pair of impossibly white gloves, Mr. Fell reached for what looked like a vintage tin pepper shaker and proceeded to shake a crumbly white powder out onto the pages. He then began rubbing the powder in slow and gentle circles with his fingertips, moving from the center of the page outwards. The whole time, he murmured quietly to himself, occasionally humming little snatches of melody. 

After some time, he surveyed his work. Apparently satisfied with whatever it was he had just done, he picked up a small brush and began sweeping the powder away, moving out from the center of the page to the edges in a starburst pattern. Kyle was surprised to note that the page looked significantly brighter and clearer than it had when he started this baffling ritual. Mr. Fell examined the freshly cleaned page, nodded with satisfaction, then started the whole process again on the adjacent page. 

It should have been dismally boring to watch, but instead it was just calming. Hypnotic, in fact. Kyle set his book on the floor and curled up on the couch. He realized, distantly, that he had slipped his shoes off and tucked his feet up against the back of the couch, which was kind of a weird and unprofessional thing to do in his boss’s office, wasn’t it, but whatever. He was just so very comfortable. Even as he continued watching Mr. Fell, he slid inexorably into a deep and blissful sleep. 

\--- 

Kyle stood in the depths of a still forest. He wasn’t alone. There was someone—something—with him. A Presence. The Presence was more of a thing half-seen out of the corner of his eye than anything Kyle could really focus on, but he had a sense of light, of kind and watchful eyes, and . . . wings? 

The nearest tree was a massive pine, far bigger around than Kyle’s arm span. Hundreds of mushrooms were clustered at its base. They glowed golden-white, as if they were made of sunlight. Bracket fungi spun from the same light-stuff climbed the trunk like a dainty staircase. And somehow, unaccountably, he could see the mycelia—a glowing lattice of filaments penetrating deep into the wood, into the earth around him, winding around the roots of the tree far beneath his feet. The web spread out in every direction, making glittering fractals through the forest floor and up the trunks of the surrounding trees. 

But the shimmering substance was also hanging in the air like dust motes, clinging to the surfaces of leaves like stardust, and even spangling his own skin in a constellation of incandescent freckles. It was everywhere. 

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” sighed a voice. It was a single voice that sounded like thousands; simultaneously ancient and childlike, neither male nor female. The voice didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular. Kyle heard it—felt it?—inside himself, permeating him with a gentle warmth that spread from his heart to the ends of his fingers and toes. “I have always felt that there are few human pursuits more noble than the study of Her creation in all its infinite glory.” 

The stillness of the glittering wood was so complete that Kyle was almost afraid to disturb it by speaking aloud. 

“Mr. Fell?” he finally ventured in a voice so soft that it was barely audible. 

The Presence said nothing, but he could feel it watching him, and smiling. There was a whisper-soft rustling, like the sound of a bird contentedly fluffing its feathers. 

They stood together for a peaceful moment that seemed to stretch on into eternity before it faded into the gentle twilight of wakefulness. 

\--- 

“Kyle?” 

Kyle blinked and stirred, trying to get his bearings. The haze of sleep finally cleared, and he jerked upright in surprise. Mr. Fell was hovering over him, a solicitous expression on his face. “Holy sh—oh jeez, I’m sorry, Mr. Fell. How long was I asleep?” 

“For quite some time. You must have been absolutely tuckered. I suppose I did wake you quite early this morning.” 

Kyle dragged both his hands over his face. “Oh God, I totally did not mean to do that, I’m so sorry, I can make up the time—” 

“My child, please. Not another word about it. Are you all right?” 

“Yeah, it’s just, I had the weirdest dream. It was so real, but I can’t—it’s like the more I try to focus on it, the less I can remember.” 

Mr. Fell darted a quick, almost sly glance at Kyle and flashed one of his sunbeam smiles. “Funny things, dreams, aren’t they? Don’t worry yourself about it too much. I’m sure you’ll be right as rain after a nice, fresh cup of tea and a biscuit.”


	4. Collectio Monastica

It was a slow day, but a deeply peaceful one. Mr. Fell tinkered with his books, and Kyle read, communed with the mold garden, and read some more. The anxious, guilty clamour in his brain that kept screaming at him that he ought to be doing some actual work slowly quieted, and he began to relax and enjoy himself. It was really, he allowed himself to admit, a lovely way to spend the day. And if Mr. Fell wanted to pay him for it, who was he to complain? 

He read about fungi and the strange, passionate community of people who love them; about the vital work of mycelial webs in breaking down organic molecules into nourishing soils. He marveled at the dizzying array different types of fungal sporebodies, from flower-like earthstars to glowing ghost fungi. He was still curled up with his book when Mr. Fell gently tapped him on the shoulder and told him that it was time to close up. 

\--- 

Kyle didn’t go home straight away. When he left work, the sun was just starting to inch down toward the horizon. He took a slow saunter to St. James’s park, where he sat on a bench by the lake and stared out over the water. He felt calm, but strangely energized, like he was more deeply connected to the world around him than ever before. He could almost sense the fungal web beneath his feet, pulsing with energy and life, keeping nature in balance. His eyes drifted closed, and— 

“Well, look who it is,” drawled a familiar voice. “Imagine running into you here. Funny, that.” 

Kyle suppressed a groan and opened his eyes. He was annoyed to find that his perfectly reasonable sense of dread was combined with a little spark of pleasant anticipation. Some dumbass part of him, he realized, was glad to see Crowley again. “Oh,” he said. “Hey.” 

Crowley was sitting—or, rather sprawling—beside him, occupying roughly two thirds of the bench. He smiled brightly from behind his sunglasses and held up a bag of Haribo Twin Snakes. “Fancy a sweet?” he asked, ripping into the bag with a little flourish. 

The intelligent, reasonable part of Kyle’s brain, which he liked to think was most of it, was affronted by the cliché. Offering him candy, _really_? Where was the unmarked white van to go with it? 

But Kyle’s one stupid fucking idiot brain cell, which was apparently holding the rest of his neurons at gunpoint, reasoned that the bag had been unopened and therefore could not possibly contain poison, roofies, or razor blades. “Thanks,” said Kyle’s mouth. His hand reached for a gummy. _Unbe-fucking-lievable._

It was the perfect junk food. Sweet and tart, juicy, and just springy enough to put up a fight between his teeth. No nutritional value whatsoever. 

“Love ‘em,” said Crowley, as if in direct answer to Kyle’s internal monologue. Kyle watched in horrified fascination as he opened his mouth impossibly wide, tossed in handful of gummy snakes, and seemingly swallowed them whole. Then he casually glanced at the book in Kyle’s lap. “What’s that you got there? Homework from Mr. Fell?” 

Something about the way he said it made Kyle feel weirdly defensive, although he wasn’t sure if it was of himself or Mr. Fell. He clutched the book a little closer. “It’s a gift. It’s really interesting, actually.” 

“Oh, yeah, I don’t doubt it.” 

“It is.” 

“I said I didn’t doubt it.” Crowley shook the bag of gummy snakes, and for reasons unknown, least of all to himself, Kyle took another one. “It’s just that I’ve known Mr. Fell since—pfff, well, since the beginning. I know what he’s like when he gets it into his head that he knows what’s best for someone.” 

“I’m pretty sure he was just being nice,” Kyle said warily. “He knows I’m interested in this stuff.” 

Crowley hefted an eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the silly git,” he said, with genuine fondness. “But he can be a little . . . how do I put it? Sanctimonious. Pushy. Can’t blame him, of course, it’s in his nature. Just don’t let him bulldoze you, ‘s all I’m saying.” 

“Bulldoze me? Into what, reading about fungi?” 

Crowley didn’t answer. Kyle chewed nervously on his gummy snake, and Crowley dumped a few more gummies down his own throat. Then he whipped a yellow and green one at a passing duck with astonishing speed and accuracy. The duck quacked indignantly and flapped off. “Never did like that flavour,” he muttered. 

“So,” said Kyle, and he fully intended his next words to be something about how he’d better be going, “how do you know Mr. Fell, anyway?” Damn it. 

“We’re—” Crowley made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand “—old business associates.” 

“Are you a book dealer?” Kyle asked doubtfully. 

Crowley snorted. “Not exactly. Look, kid, it doesn’t matter. Point is, you don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations. There’s nothing wrong with taking the path of least resistance in life sometimes.” 

“Is that it?” Kyle said, a little testily. He felt called out, but he wasn’t sure for what. 

“M’yeh,” said Crowley, “that’s it.” 

Kyle steeled himself for the inevitable offer of a ride home. This time, he told himself, he was absolutely going to say no. He got the word ready and let it sit on his tongue, waiting to be fired off at a moment’s notice. 

But the offer never came. Instead, Crowley slithered up off the bench and into a standing position, flowing upwards like wine being poured out of a bottle in reverse. “Nice talk, kid,” he said. “See you around.” He sauntered slowly away, without looking back.  
Kyle blinked after him, too surprised by the sudden departure to say anything. To his chagrin, he felt a twinge of disappointment. That ridiculous idiot part of him was distinctly sorry to see Crowley go. 

His wistfulness was quickly replaced with horror as he watched Crowley crumple up his candy bag and toss it nonchalantly into the lake. Just what sort of a monster _was_ this guy? 

\--- 

Kyle was so distracted the next day that he nearly forgot that Aabirah was supposed to visit the bookshop. Mr. Fell put him to work as soon as he came in, seemingly having remembered that Kyle was a paid employee. He was counting the money in the till, which included currency he was fairly certain hadn’t been in circulation for at least a century, when his phone screen lit up. 

_on my way_

“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed. 

“Everything all right, my boy?” asked Mr. Fell, not looking up from the dusty ledger on his desk. 

“Yeah, sorry, Mr. Fell. It’s my friend, you know, my flatmate—she’s coming over. You said you wanted her to look at your book, the one with the beetles?” 

Mr. Fell did look up at that. He plucked off his little silver-rimmed glasses and set them aside, smiling warmly. “Oh! How lovely. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

\--- 

Aabirah showed up about 10 minutes later. Kyle hovered anxiously by the door and intercepted her as she walked in. 

“Oh my God, thanks so much for coming,” he said in a rushed, conspiratorial murmur. “He’s in the back, making tea. Just don’t touch any of the books without asking first, especially not those ones over there. Or those. Or the ones in the—” 

“Woah, mate, relax! It’s cool, bro, I’m not going to touch anything.” She gazed around the shop, her eyes widening as they took in her surroundings. “Holy shit, this place is wicked! Eugh, is that the mold garden I smell?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry, though, it’s totally contained.” 

She clamped a hand over her nose. “It doesn’t bloody well smell contained, mate. That _can’t_ be good for the books.” 

“Trust me,” said Kyle, “it’s not hurting the books. It wouldn’t dare.” 

A moment later, Mr. Fell poked his head out from around the corner, beamed, and strode over to them. “Nofri ehoou!” he said, bowing his head respectfully to Aabirah as he approached. “Aziraphale pe paran. Delighted to meet you.” 

Aabirah blinked at him in astonishment. Slowly, she offered her hand, which he clasped in a warm handshake. “Nofri,” she said. “Aabirah Salib. You . . . speak Coptic, Mr. Fell?” 

“Oh,” he said, with a shy smile and a modest flicker of the eyelashes, “it’s been a _great_ many years since I’ve actually spoken it with anyone. But I do remember a phrase or two. How do you take your tea, my dear?” 

“Um, black, please, two sugars. Thanks so much.” 

He did one of his chipper little shimmies. “Coming right up! Do have a seat in my office, make yourself at home.” 

Mr. Fell vanished back into the depths of the shop, and Aabirah rounded on Kyle. She pressed her hands to the sides of her face and opened her mouth in a silent shriek of delight. “Bruuuuuh,” she said in a low whisper, “you didn’t tell me he was bloody adorable, mate!” 

“Oh, no, come on—” 

“I’m serious, he’s like an overgrown Dickensian cosplaying Bilbo Baggins or some shit. I want to take him home and put him in a basket and feed him crumpets.” 

“I know, I know, he’s great, but try to focus here. He’s also, like, a mob boss or something.” 

\--- 

About 15 minutes later, having had the promised tea, Aabirah was stationed at Mr. Fell’s desk with a yellowing, leather-bound manuscript in front of her. Mr. Fell loomed on one side of her, anxiously flexing his fingers as if to remind himself not to instinctively snatch the book away. Kyle stood on the other, looking curiously over her shoulder. The pages of the book were made of brittle parchment, decorated with vividly colorful illustrations and neat columns of text in red and black ink. It was written in a script Kyle had never seen. The inner edges of several of the pages were filled with lacy little holes, and some had come loose altogether. They shifted under Aabirah’s gentle touch, and Mr. Fell visibly winced at the sight. 

“Um,” said Kyle, his voice sounding obscenely loud in the reverent silence of the shop, “so you’re not wearing gloves for this?” 

“Nah, mate,” said Aabirah, carefully running a finger down the book’s gutter. “They catch on everything and make it harder to feel what you’re doing. Right, Mr. Fell?” she added with a collegial smile. He responded only with a nod and a nervous chuckle. “Most of the time, you don’t need them, as long as your hands are clean.” 

She turned the book over to look at the spine, examined the corners, and peered closely at the inner hinges of both covers. Then she set it down, clucking her tongue. “Looks like carpet beetles,” she announced. “Have you treated the book, Mr. Fell?” 

“Yes, absolutely,” he said hurriedly. “The beetles have been—dispatched. They shan’t be bothering the rest of my collection.” 

“Well done, you don’t want the little buggers spreading,” she said approvingly. 

Mr. Fell lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I know we’re supposed to love them all equally, but I must confess that carpet beetles are not amongst my favourite of the Almighty’s creations.” 

Aabirah nodded sympathetically. “Oh, big mood. Little bloody monsters. Good news, though—this is totally fixable. We can fill in the worst of it with a little Forstmeyer’s opaque. If you want, I can come in and work on it this weekend.” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Fell, his shoulders sagging in relief. He looked like someone’s next of kin getting good news from the operating room. “Oh, _thank you,_ my dear. Naturally, you will be handsomely recompensed for your—oh, for Heaven’s sake.” 

A customer had entered the store and was poking around somewhere in the foyer. Scowling, Mr. Fell strode off to deal with the intruder. 

“This fuckin’ book, mate,” whispered Aabirah, after he’d left. “It’s incredible. Where’d he get it?” 

Kyle shrugged. “From a dealer, I guess. It’s not one of the ones I helped him with.” 

“I mean, stylistically speaking, it looks about contemporary with the Garima Gospels!” 

“Uh huh,” said Kyle, who had no idea what she was talking about, but thought it sounded impressive. “Wow.” 

She opened the book to an illustrated scene that spread across two pages, with short columns of text beneath. “Huh, weird. I don’t remember anything like this in the other copies I’ve seen.” 

Kyle leaned in for a closer look. On the right-hand page was a group of monks, some of them huddled behind stylized rocks and shrubs. They were looking with concern at the scene on the opposite page. There stood a large figure of a white-haired angel, dressed in elaborate white robes with gold edging, with a huge black and red snake twined around him. The angel and the snake were nose-to-nose, with one of the angel’s hands gently resting on the snake’s neck. With his other hand, he pointed sternly to the left, seemingly ordering the snake to leave. Otherwise, the encounter didn’t look especially unfriendly. 

“I’d say Saint Michael and the serpent,” said Aabirah, “but it’s got kind of a different vibe. Like, there’s a lot less stabbing going on than usual, for one thing.” 

“That’s Crowley,” Kyle blurted out. He realized as soon as he said it how bizarre it sounded, but the thought had popped into his head and out of his mouth so abruptly that he didn’t have time to think about it before he spoke. 

Aabirah blinked at him, puzzled. “Who, the snake?” 

“Forget it, it was a stupid thought. It just reminded me of him for some reason.” 

She chuckled. “Funny, I was just thinking the angel here looks a bit like Mr. Fell.” 

“What does the text say?” asked Kyle warily. He felt even more deeply unsettled than he usually did lately. 

“Don’t know. I can’t read Ge’ez, I’m afraid.” 

“Good day, sir,” Mr. Fell’s voice rang out sharply from the foyer a second later, as the front door of the shop slammed shut. “And don’t forget to leave your review on the Google!”


	5. Inoculum

After Mr. Fell returned, Aabirah said her goodbyes and promised to come back that Saturday. Kyle hurriedly excused himself to walk her to her bike. 

“Well?” he said eagerly, once they were across the street. “What do you think?” 

Aabirah grinned. “That shit was wild, mate. Most interesting thing that’s happened to me all week, hands down. Absolutely _love_ your boss, he’s a treasure.” 

“You are coming back, though, right? On Saturday?” 

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

“Oh shit,” Kyle cut in, grabbing her elbow. A gorgeous vintage car had just pulled up to the kerb in front of Mr. Fell’s shop. “Oh shit, shit, shit, it’s Crowley. Quick, in here.” 

They ducked into the patisserie directly across from the bookshop and watched through the window. Crowley emerged from the car a moment later. There was a bouquet of red and white roses tucked under his arm. 

“Wow, that’s him?” whispered Aabirah. “Oh no, he’s kinda—” 

“I know, please don’t say it. Oh God, what’s he doing?” Crowley was nosing at the air, his lip curled, like he was trying to catch a scent on the breeze. Then his gaze seemed to fall directly on Kyle. Kyle swung around so that his back was to the window, trying vainly to convince himself that Crowley hadn’t actually seen him. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

He felt Aabirah’s hand on his arm. “Hey, are you okay? Listen, mate, we can catch the bus home together right now if you don’t feel safe—” 

Kyle took a strengthening breath. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m good. I’d better get back to work.” 

“Are you sure? He just went into the shop.” 

“Yeah,” said Kyle, “I’m sure.” 

\--- 

Kyle slipped back into the shop as quietly as possible, but the bell jangled obnoxiously in spite of his efforts. However, Mr. Fell and Crowley were seemingly too absorbed in their conversation to pay him much mind. They were in the back room with the door shut, so he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Judging from the tones of their voices, though, the discussion had become a trifle heated. 

He crept into Mr. Fell’s office, where the book was still lying on the desk, now closed. Silently, he settled himself in front of the cash register and started counting the money again, picking up where he’d left off. Only the numbers kept slipping out of his head like water through a sieve, because now he could distinctly hear the argument taking place in the next room. 

“Stop being absurd, Crowley!” 

“Angel, I’m not—” 

“You are. You’re being _absolutely_ absurd. I _know_ what I’m doing, I’ve been doing it as long as you have.” 

“I’m not saying y’don’t, Aziraphale. But this is different, and you know it. I mean, right here in the shop, day in and day out? It’ll be 1642 all over again.” 

“Oh, please!” 

“It will, angel. Mark my words.” 

There was a long silence, then Mr. Fell spoke up again, quietly enough that Kyle had to strain to hear him. “Anyway, I don’t see why you should care. What difference would it make to you?” 

“Who says it makes any difference to me?” muttered Crowley, in a tone that suggested that it did, in fact, make a great deal of difference to him. “Just be careful. S’all I’m saying.” 

“Ridiculous creature,” said Mr. Fell, almost tenderly. “Now, Crowley, please. The day is wearing on, and I have work to do. As do you, I’m sure.” 

If there was any response from Crowley, it must not have been verbal. A second later, Kyle heard the doorknob turning, and he quickly busied himself again with the money. Crowley came stalking out a moment later, looking aggressively nonchalant. He stopped in front of the till and gazed steadily at Kyle, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. 

“Hey, kid,” he said, when Kyle didn’t immediately acknowledge him. 

“Oh, hi,” said Kyle, pretending to be engrossed with the money. 

Crowley sidled closer and gently rapped his knuckle on the desk. “We need to talk, you and me,” he said in a low murmur that should have been all but inaudible, but Kyle somehow heard with crystal clarity. 

When he looked up to answer, Crowley was gone. He shivered and set down his uncounted stack of antiquated £5 notes, feeling cold and deeply ill at ease. 

\--- 

Several minutes passed before Mr. Fell finally emerged from the back room, carrying an opalescent green glass vase full of red and white roses. He smiled brightly, but Kyle thought it looked a little forced. 

“Ah, Kyle, you’re back,” he said, sounding distracted. “A lovely young lady, Ms. Salib. Can’t thank you enough for bringing her ‘round to look at my manuscript.” 

“Yeah, absolutely,” said Kyle. His mouth felt dry. 

Mr. Fell’s brow wrinkled with concern. “You look a little poorly, child. Would you like another biscuit?” 

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks, Mr. Fell. I should get this finished.” 

“Oh, that can wait,” said Mr. Fell, with a dismissive little wave. He hefted the vase of roses. “Help me find a spot for these, would you?” 

They walked out to the foyer, and Mr. Fell indicated a small table near the entrance where a few pale shafts of sunlight filtered in. Kyle dutifully relocated the stack of books on top of the table to a nearby spot on the floor. Mr. Fell set the vase on the newly cleared surface, looked at it appraisingly, then rotated it about 45 degrees. “There,” he said, nodding with satisfaction. “Aren’t they lovely?” 

“Really pretty,” Kyle agreed, and they were. He’d never seen such lush and perfect roses. They were also putting out a gorgeous fragrance that almost overpowered the smell of the mould garden. 

“It’s a shame, though,” said Mr. Fell, with a thoughtful frown, “about cut flowers. They’re so . . . fleeting. It would be nice to find some way to keep them around, wouldn’t it? Maybe in a planter box out front. Too bad.” 

“Well, er, you can propagate them from cuttings,” said Kyle, relieved at the both the distraction and the chance to feel helpful again. “You’d just need a little potting soil, maybe some rooting hormone, and . . . and . . .” He trailed off. A thought so vivid that it was nearly a hallucination blossomed into his mind’s eye: glowing mycelial filaments weaving their way around the cut end of a rose stem, drawing nutrients up out of the soil and feeding them into the exposed vascular tissue, coaxing tiny roots to grow, creating a protective barrier against disease and rot. 

“Kyle?” pressed Mr. Fell, gently. 

“Fungus. They’ll root better if we treat them with a mycorrhizal fungus.” 

Mr. Fell grinned, and this time it didn’t seem forced in the slightest. “Really! How wonderful.” He paused and then snapped his fingers, as if he had just thought of something. “I wonder if we might have such a thing in the garden.” 

After some quiet consideration, he drew one of the white roses out of the vase. The blossom was immense, plump, and silky, and almost seemed to glow with its own light. Kyle fancied he saw it tremble slightly at Mr. Fell’s touch. Mr. Fell must have seen it, too, because he held the bloom close to his lips for a second and whispered something reassuring to it. Then he handed it to Kyle. 

“Let’s try an experiment,” said Mr. Fell, his eyes twinkling. 

\--- 

Kyle left A. Z. Fell and Co. with the rose, a tiny tin of earth that he didn’t recall seeing in the garden before, and a generous wad of extra spending money from Mr. Fell. He expected to run into Crowley when he stepped out of the shop, but to his vast relief, there was no sign of him. 

Instead of heading home, he hopped a bus to the ominously named World’s End Nurseries—a bit out of the way, but Mr. Fell had recommended it with great enthusiasm. There, he bought a pot of rooting hormone, a bag of horticultural sand, a package of vermiculite, and a little clay pot. 

Back in the flat, he spread out his purchases on the dining table and took a seat. Realizing that his knowledge of what he was supposed to be doing was entirely theoretical, he got up again and returned with his laptop. Half an hour later, he had about 28 tabs open in Chrome, and had added a pair of scissors, a sharp kitchen knife, a clear plastic produce bag, and a jar of water to his arsenal of tools. 

He frowned, turning the flower over in his hands. The internet had helpfully informed him that he needed to cut the blossom off. He remembered Mr. Fell murmuring soothing words into the petals, and suddenly felt like a bloody executioner. “Right,” he said, addressing the rose. “I’m really sorry to do this to you, but . . .” 

He took the scissors and snipped the lush, white bloom off the stem at a 45° angle. It fell onto the table with a soft thud. He made a second cut at the end of the stem, then used the knife to trim away all but the top two leaves. Then he scraped away some of the green outer surface of the end of the stem to reveal the white, woody flesh underneath. 

“Are you . . . operating on that flower?” asked Aabirah from over his shoulder. 

Kyle jumped guiltily. He hadn’t even heard her come in. “I guess you could say that,” he said. “I hope I’m not killing it.” 

“It’s literally just a stick at this point, mate. Not sure how it’s gonna come back from that.” 

“Plants are weird,” said Kyle hopefully. “They can survive all kinds of crazy shit. If I do this right, I’ll be giving it a new lease on life, as a whole new rosebush.” 

“Huh.” She picked up the decapitated blossom. “Damn! This thing is so perfect, it hardly looks real. Is it one of the ones Crowley brought?”   
“Yeah. Mr. Fell wants me to try and propagate it with some mycorrhizal inoculum from his fungus garden.” 

Aabirah slowly sat down at the table across from Kyle as he dipped the scraped end of the stem in water, then gently rolled it in a small pile of rooting powder. “So, all this was Mr. Fell’s idea, then? What _is_ this bloke’s thing with fungus?” 

“Well, technically, I suggested using the fungi on the rose,” said Kyle, but he suddenly felt uncertain about where the notion had actually come from. “I don’t know. It seems like he’s just really keen on getting me interested in this stuff. I mean, I already kind of was, but it’s like he picked up on it somehow and just ran with it.” 

“So, fungus nerd looking for someone to share his obsession with? That checks out, I guess.” 

“Maybe. But it seems like more than that. When I saw Crowley yesterday, at the park, he told me not to let Mr. Fell pressure me into something. But, like, pressure me into what? Studying mould? Why would he do that? How would it be such a bad thing? Why would Crowley even care?” 

She shook her head, baffled. “Dunno, mate. It’s just all so weird.” 

“Pssh. You can say that again.” He opened the tin of inoculum and gently shook the contents. It looked like a bit of soil with little root fragments in it, but he could almost sense the presence of the fungal spores and hyphae. He rolled the end of the rose stem in a pinch of the inoculum, then stirred a bit more into the vermiculite mixture in the pot. He poked a hole in the potting mix with a pencil, and, just for good measure, sprinkled more of the inoculum into the hole before sliding the rose cutting into place. 

“So,” said Aabirah, as he poured some bottled water into the pot, “did Crowley say anything to you after you went back to the shop?” 

“Not a whole lot. But I overheard a bit of an argument between him and Mr. Fell, and, well. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I think it might have been about . . . me?” 

“Why? What’d they say?” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “I don’t know, nothing that really made sense. Crowley said something about—what was it? ‘1642 all over again.’” 

Aabirah laughed. “1642! Just how old are these guys?” 

Kyle felt his face grow cold. “You think he was talking about the _year_ 1642? I thought maybe it was like, a case number or something, like ‘Subject 1642’ . . .” 

“Uh, well, I was mostly kidding, I honestly have no idea what he meant. Your idea sounds—possibly even more alarming, though. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah, never mind, don’t worry about it.” Avoiding eye contact, he hurriedly shoved the potted rose stem into the produce bag. He puffed some air into the bag to inflate it, then tied off the top. “There. Now I guess we just wait and see what happens.” 

\---   
The next morning, Kyle slid into his seat on the bus with the potted cutting in one hand and _The Allure of Fungi_ in the other. He was already most of the way through the book, and he had the gnawing sense that it was going to leave him with even more questions than he’d had when he started reading it. He wondered, hopefully, if Mr. Fell had any other mycology books in stock. 

The bus hadn’t gone more than two stops before someone dropped into the seat next to him. Someone with a familiarly intriguing scent. Kyle’s skin prickled all over. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. 

“Oi, kid,” said Crowley, softly. “Isn’t that one of my roses?” 

“Mr. Fell gave it to me,” said Kyle defensively, scooting up against the window and clutching the pot tightly. He hated that part of him actually wanted to get _closer_ to Crowley. 

Crowley peered at the sad remains of the rose. Then, he raised his eyebrows and turned the corners of his lips down in an approving moue, nodding knowingly. “What’d it do, grow powdery mildew? Bit of the old bacterial blight?” 

“What? No, it was perfect. It’s a cutting. I’m trying to propagate it.” 

“If you say so.” 

Kyle picked up his book and started aggressively reading. Crowley sat silently for a moment, his arm resting on the back of the seat so that his hand dangled uncomfortably close to Kyle’s shoulder. Then he pulled out his phone and opened an app. 

Kyle had every intention of ignoring whatever it was that Crowley was doing, but something drew his attention irresistibly to the phone. Soon, the book was sitting forgotten on his lap as he stared at Crowley’s screen, completely absorbed. 

It looked like some sort of game. Most of the screen was filled by a lush, realistically rendered apple tree. Its branches were filled with green fruits. Occasionally, one of them would swell and ripen, turning glossy red. When that happened, Crowley would select the ripe apple with his finger and drag it into a basket at the bottom of the screen. 

“What’s that?” Kyle asked wretchedly, regretting the question and every life choice that had led up to it before it was even out of his mouth. 

“Oh, just a little app I’m testing out for Head Office,” said Crowley, stretching a leg languidly out into the aisle. A morose-looking businessman on his way to the rear exit stumbled over it and cursed sharply. Crowley smiled and nodded at him, but did not move the offending limb. “It’s an investment thing. Hard to explain, lots of—” he wiggled a hand vaguely “—algorithms and such.” 

Kyle frowned. He couldn’t see what any of it had to do with investments. But then, his knowledge of anything related to money was laughably limited. “Looks like a game,” he commented. 

“Yeah, well, that’s all the rage now, isn’t it? Everything’s gamified these days. Habits, health, language learning, terrorism . . .”

“Wh—terrorism?” 

“Sure. Give out points to the guys who make the most posts about The Cause? You’d be surprised how easy it is to radicalize someone if it earns them a collection of little digital badges. Came up with that one all on their own, too.” He pulled a particularly ripe-looking apple out of the basket and hovered a finger over it before clicking “Yes” on a dialogue box asking him if he’d like to “reseed.” 

“Anyway,” he went on, “it’s pretty simple, really. The apples represent your investments. You see one getting ripe? Time to sell. Wait too long, and your apple might rot and drop off, or it might go green and shrink down again. Harvest an especially good one, and you can always reseed it and try for an even bigger profit.” 

Kyle knew less than nothing about the stock market, but this didn’t seem right. “I thought that stuff was all really uncertain. Like, even professional economists can’t accurately predict what the market is going to do. How’s some app supposed to know?” 

Crowley shrugged. It was a weird, fluid motion that didn’t look quite anatomically possible. “What can I say? The algorithms are really good. This thing hasn’t let me down yet. I’ve made £2000 in the past twenty-four hours.” 

It was a scam; it had to be a scam. Kyle knew this. Why, then, was he so intrigued? Why was he imagining himself curled in a quiet reading nook in the lovely old farmhouse in County Durham that he’d bought for his mum so that she could while away a happy early retirement there, living comfortably on the money he’d earned harvesting digital apples a few times a day? It all felt so real, and so utterly attainable. Effortless, even. So little chance of failure, of letting everyone down. 

“It’s still in alpha, of course,” said Crowley, snapping Kyle out of his reverie. “But I’m sure Head Office wouldn’t mind if I let you take it for a test drive.” 

Before he could formulate an answer, his phone lit up with an AirDrop notification.


	6. Apple Tree

An apple swelled and reddened on the bough. If he looked closely enough, Kyle could see the pale freckles dappling its cheeks. _Lenticels_ , some distant part of him chimed in vaguely. _Nice touch._ He pushed the thought away; right now, he didn’t particularly care about the quality of the graphics or the anatomy of real-life apples. He didn’t especially care about anything, other than collecting his digital harvest.  
If he waited too long, the apple would fall and rot, or it would start to shrink back down again. Harvesting it too soon was a waste, though. He’d made that mistake too many times, especially in the beginning. He had to wait until it was perfect, and he was finally starting to get the hang of it. If he looked away for even a second— 

_Kyle._

Was someone talking to him? He felt like maybe someone had been talking to him for rather a while, now.

“Yeah, just a . . .” he said, and trailed off. He darted his finger out to snatch the apple and drag it to the basket. Another half a second, and it would have been too late. 

“Kyle.” 

Someone was definitely talking to him. With dry and sticky eyes, he quickly scanned the tree. Most of the remaining apples were still green, but that one in the lower left was pinkening a little. He maybe had time to look up for a couple seconds. 

“Yeah, hang on,” he said, a little more testily than he’d intended. He set the phone down in his lap and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands; he could still see apples. 

“Ķ̶͉͚̣̙̦̜̭̟̖̻̙̞̑͆̆͐̑͗̏y̸͚̔̈́̇͊́̋͗̍̕͠l̶̢̖͌̽̇̽̈́́̇̈́̈́͑͘͠e̷̥̙̖͓̹̔”

This time, the voice seemed to start somewhere inside his medulla oblongata, shoot down the nerve fibres along the length of his entire body, and emerge through the ends of his suddenly clammy fingers and toes. He jerked his head up with an involuntary gasp. “Yeah, yes! I’m here! I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, what were you saying?” 

Mr. Fell was frowning down at him, twisting nervously at the gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. “Kyle, what _is_ the matter? You haven’t been yourself at all these past two days. I-I don’t think your mind is on your work.” 

Two days? Had it actually been two full days? Was it the weekend? Just trying to think about the passage of time made his head throb. All he knew was that he was wasting time right now, listening to Mr. Fell fret and not minding his apples. His eyes began to drift back down toward his phone screen. That apple was definitely growing. 

“Kyle!” 

Kyle dragged his gaze up again, swallowing a wave of irritation. Mr. Fell’s face annoyed him. So did his fidgeting, and the high, nervous edge to his voice. Had he always been so annoying? 

“To be fair, Mr. Fell,” he said flatly, “there’s not exactly a lot for me to do here.” 

Mr. Fell bounced on his toes and flashed an anxious grin. “You could, ah, water the garden. And, and tend to the rose! And, oh, some of those new books that we ordered should be coming in today. Any minute now, in fact.” He snapped his fingers as he said it, with an odd little downward flourish. Kyle couldn’t fathom why, and that annoyed him, too. 

“The rose doesn’t need tending,” mumbled Kyle, scrubbing his hands hard over his face. He realized that he’d forgotten to shave, maybe for a couple of days now. There was patchy stubble everywhere. “It’s a cutting, all it has to do right now is sit there and put down roots.” _Like me, I guess,_ he added silently. This was agony. Why wouldn’t Fell go away, why was he still standing there? He could see the apple ripening out of the corner of his eye. 

“Are you sure? Perhaps we ought to check. See how it’s progressing.” 

“There won’t _be_ any progress, Mr. Fell. It takes weeks and weeks for a cutting to root.” His hand drifted down to hover over the apple. _Go away, go away._

The doorbell jangled. “Ah, that will be the delivery,” said Mr. Fell. “You see? What did I tell you. Now, be a good lad and help me with the boxes.”  
“Yeah, in a sec.” He looked down at the screen. The apple wasn’t quite ready yet, but it was close. He glanced back up, and found to his relief that Mr. Fell was gone. 

The apple trembled on the branch. A text notification popped up, and the apple abruptly turned brown and fell. Kyle stifled a loud curse.  
The text was from Aabirah: _can’t make it today m8, something came up sry. let mr fell know i can be there monday_

He’d completely forgotten that Aabirah was supposed to come. Was it actually Saturday already? He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that she wasn’t going to be there. No, definitely relieved. Really, he just wanted everyone to leave him alone. And there was Mr. Fell again, carrying an improbably large box of books as if it were filled with little more than packing peanuts. 

Mr. Fell set the box down firmly by his desk, then rounded on Kyle again. The concerned lines between his eyebrows had deepened. He didn’t speak, but gestured toward the box with a small jerk of his head. 

Kyle felt a twinge of guilt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put down the phone just yet. Another apple was ripening, this time very rapidly. “Okay, yeah. I’ll be with you in just one more sec—” 

But Mr. Fell was standing directly over him now, looming uncomfortably in his personal space. “Please,” he said softly, “let me see that device.” 

A flash of panic and anger flared in Kyle’s chest. He clutched the phone protectively. “What? No!” 

“Dear boy, I insist.” Mr. Fell thrust out a soft, tidily manicured hand and waited. 

Kyle sat frozen to the spot, still gripping the phone. “No,” he repeated, his voice cracking embarrassingly. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted. I’ll put it away.” 

The hand didn’t move. “Now, Kyle, if you please.” 

Kyle shook his head defiantly. “Mr. Fell, I don’t know all the legalities and whatnot, but I don’t think that, as my boss, you can just—just order me to hand over my things.” 

Mr. Fell looked improbably large. When had he gotten so big? He wasn’t a big man, but he somehow filled Kyle’s entire field of view. There was a metallic sting in his throat and nostrils. He’d had been all wrong before. Mr. Fell wasn’t annoying in the slightest. He was terrifying. 

But it only lasted for an instant. The waiting hand withdrew abruptly, and the metallic tang subsided. Mr. Fell sat down on the couch next to him. There was a silken rustling, and something seemed to envelope Kyle warmly, like a gentle arm around his shoulder. Not an arm, though—both of Mr. Fell’s hands were folded neatly in his lap. He smelled like old books and chamomile, but also like the flannel shirt Kyle’s grandpa used to wear, the one Kyle had more than once buried his face in as he cried over a skinned knee or a bumped elbow. He smelled like freshly sharpened pencils and Christmas morning and a forest after a gentle rain. 

And there was that smile again, the one made of pure sunlight. 

“Kyle,” said Mr. Fell, ever so softly, “I hope that by now you might think of me not only as your employer, but also as a friend. I assure you, I have no intention of confiscating your telephone. It’s just that, well, I don’t believe that whoever introduced you to this—what is the word, this application?—had your best interests at heart. Now, if I may?” 

Silently, Kyle handed over his phone. 

\--- 

Kyle felt better immediately, in the same way he might feel better after puking when he had a stomach bug. Not good, but relieved, like he’d gotten something nasty out of his system. 

Mr. Fell frowned at the phone in silence for a long while. “I see,” he said coldly, although Kyle could tell that the chill wasn’t directed at him. “I suspected as much.” He lightly swiped his thumb up the screen before handing the phone back to Kyle. The app was closed. Not just closed—gone. 

“What—How’d you do that?” His mouth felt dry and cottony. 

“Not to worry,” murmured Mr. Fell. He rested the back of his hand against Kyle’s forehead for an instant, as if checking for a fever. A sense of warmth and relief flooded his veins, and he was overcome with pleasant drowsiness. “There, there. All better now.” 

“Mr. Fell,” said Kyle, sleepily, “what’s going on?” 

“Nothing you need trouble yourself with. Why don’t you rest your head for a moment? There’s something I need to take care of.” 

Mr. Fell got up and went to his desk, where he smartly snatched up his antique telephone. He walked into the back room with it. The cord stretched improbably far, Kyle thought. His eyelids felt leaden, but intense curiosity was battling with his desire to sleep. He willed himself to stay awake, straining to hear Mr. Fell’s muffled telephone conversation. 

“What on Earth could have possessed you . . . What? That is not how the arrangement . . . You’re meddling! I _do_ call it that, what other possible word is there to describe it?” 

Kyle forced himself to get off the couch and move over to the desk. He sank heavily into Mr. Fell’s chair and propped his chin up with his hands. 

“You’ve got some nerve, serpent, presuming to tell me that any of this is for anyone’s own good! Yes, well, what would _you_ know about it?” 

_Someone’s in trouble_ , Kyle thought giddily. He stifled an entirely inappropriate urge to start giggling. Struggling to pull himself together, he focused his attention on the nearest object. A book on the desk; a familiar one. That’s right, Aabirah was supposed to come with her magical glue and fix it all up, wasn’t she? Shit, where was she? 

“Oh, your job, is it? And I suppose you’re the only one with a job to do around here! Well, if you think I’m going to sit idly by and let you sow your demonic mischief, you’ve got another thi—what? No, no, NO. I am not having _that_ argument with you again, Crowley. Look it up in the blessed dictionary if you like.” 

The book fell open easily to the page with the snake and the angel. Kyle tried to concentrate through the odd, sleepy fog that surrounded him. The angel was wearing a ring on the little finger of his right hand. Where had he seen that before? 

“ . . . course I know it’s correct, I was there when the phrase was invented! Oh, this is all beside the point. You are deliberately distracting me, don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing!” 

Kyle flipped back to the beginning of the book, wincing as some of the loose pages shifted under his touch. He wondered idly what Mr. Fell would do if he caught him messing around with it. 

The first illustration in the book was a familiar scene: the temptation of Eve. She reached up her hand to pluck a bright red apple from the Tree of Knowledge. A massive red and black snake—the same one from the scene with the angel, surely—dangled from the foliage. Kyle had seen this particular tree before. When he closed his eyes, it was there, burned into his retinas, down to the configuration of the branches. 

“No, wait, what?” whispered Kyle. A sliver of realization pierced the haze in his brain like a faint ray of sunlight. 

\--- 

Kyle didn’t wait for Mr. Fell to finish his phone call. He closed the book, quickly but carefully, and slipped out of the shop. He paused only to grab the pot with the little rose cutting in it on his way out the door. 

Outside, he gulped at the fresh air, hoping it would help clear his mind and slow his racing thoughts. After a few minutes, he did feel a little better. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the change of air or his relative distance from Mr. Fell’s weird mojo. Either way, the fog lifted a bit more, and he began to piece together a vague picture of what had gone on over the past couple of days. 

He was afraid to check his bank account. To his amazement, the app had been everything Crowley said it would be. Until he stopped paying attention to it for more than a couple seconds, that is. Any time he wasn’t watching it, the apples rapidly rotted and dropped, taking his investments with them. He’d have been better off if he’d quit after his first harvest, but naturally, he hadn’t. There’d been so much frantic harvesting and reseeding and new planting that he’d entirely lost track of how much money was going in and out of his account. 

He hadn’t gotten any sleep. He’d barely eaten. And now the app was gone. 

All that was awful, but the situation wasn’t completely dire. He still had a few fat envelopes full of cash from Mr. Fell that he had yet to deposit at the bank. What worried him more was, well, everything else. 

He wasn’t quite ready to articulate his train of thought, even to himself. He felt as if his mind was racing up the ladder of inference two rungs at a time. The half-formed idea that was percolating into his consciousness was utterly crazy. It made no logical sense. And yet, it did. It totally did. One thing was certain, though—he was in so far over his head he couldn’t even see the surface anymore. He needed to talk to someone. 

His first impulse was to text Aabirah, but he shrank from the notion. She was busy, she’d canceled. He’d already dragged her deep enough into his increasingly weird problems, anyway. 

Talking to his mum was entirely out of the question. Anything he had to say would just worry her, and Worrying Mum was high on his list of deepest, darkest fears. That meant that his sister was also right out—she’d just go straight to Mum, who’d probably be even more worried that Kyle hadn’t come to her first. He was pretty sure his best mate from school, Vihaan, also knew how to get in touch with Mum, so he couldn’t risk that, either. 

Besides, none of them knew he’d taken up a post in the Twilight Zone, did they? Without context, he was quite sure that whatever he was going to say would sound even more yampy than it already did. He needed to talk to someone who already had an inkling of just how weird his job was. And that brought him right back to square one. There was really no other choice. 

He pulled out his phone and did something that ranked only slightly lower on his fear scale than Worrying Mum: he made a phone call. 

\--- 

He was half disappointed, half relieved when the call went straight to voicemail. “Er, hey, Aabirah,” he said haltingly. “It’s Kyle, your flatmate. Um, obviously. I know you’re busy, but, um, I just need to talk. Whenever you’ve got the time. No rush. Bye.” He cringed as he hung up, wondering, as he always did, what kind of sadist had invented voicemail. Definitely not anybody he wanted to meet. 

He didn’t have time to contemplate the question for very long. His phone rang almost immediately. 

“Eyyy,” said Aabirah, when he picked up. “Listen, I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it today, mate. You’re not in trouble with the boss now, are you?” 

“No, no! At least, not because of anything you did. Actually, I don’t know if he even knows you canceled yet. I just, um. Is this a good time?” 

There was an awkward silence. “Weeelll,” she finally replied, “I’m actually sort of on a date?” 

“Oh, oh wow, what? That girl from Coins and Medals?” 

“Yas, bruh! She actually asked me out to lunch this morning, can you believe it?” Kyle couldn’t see her, but he could easily envision the little fist-pumping dance she must have been doing. 

“Wow, that’s brilliant, cheers!” he said, forcing himself to sound chipper. He was genuinely delighted for her, but at the same time, he felt more scared and alone than ever. It was bad enough that he’d interrupted her date—there was no way he was going to ruin it by dumping any more of his bizarre drama on her. “I’d—I’d better let you get back to it.” 

His voice must not have sounded as normal as he’d hoped. There was another moment of silence. When she spoke again, she sounded dead serious. “Hey. Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

“Listen, Kyle. Let me stop you right there. Don’t worry about me for a minute. Just be straight with me, fam. Are you in trouble? Do you need my help right now?” 

A sudden rush of guilty gratitude welled up inside him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back tears. “You know what,” he croaked, “I really think I do, actually.”


	7. Summoning

Kyle sat across from Aabirah at a table outside the British Museum. He’d ordered a coffee, but he was too distracted to drink it. The rose cutting sat on the table between them. Kyle had taken it out of its plastic bag and found that his creeping suspicions were correct. Several fresh, green leaves were growing out of the stem, and a tiny bud had appeared near the top. 

“Are you sure it’s not that fungal whatever you put on it?” asked Aabirah, pulling the pot over so she could examine it more closely. 

“Yeah, no. There’s no way it would be this far along after only a couple of days, inoculum or no. It’d take—” He didn’t want to say “a miracle,” so he just let the sentence hang there, unfinished. 

“So . . . what d’you think it all means?” 

Kyle hesitated. He had spilled every bizarre detail he could think of about the past week—the weird visions, the inexplicable snippets of overheard conversation, the app, the image of the tree in the book. As he laid it all out, his half-formed hypothesis started to feel more and more plausible. That didn’t make it any easier to say it out loud, though. 

“Er,” he said, finally. “I’m afraid it’s going to sound really dumb. Or crazy. Or both.” 

“Don’t even worry about it, mate. Go ahead.” 

“I’m—I’m not sure Crowley and Mr. Fell are . . . totally human?” he ventured. His face burned furiously, but he resisted the urge to hide behind his hands. 

She nodded slowly, but her expression didn’t change much. If she thought he’d gone totally batshit, she didn’t let on. “What do you think they are, then?” she urged gently. 

“Ahhh,” said Kyle, sinking down into his seat. “Well, um. I thought, maybe, um. Do you think there’s a possibility that there could be, like, supernatural entities in the world? Like . . . I don’t know, like . . . demons, or whatever? Ugh, I’m sorry, I sound completely insane.” 

Aabirah clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at them for a minute. 

“Look, Kyle,” she said, lifting her eyes again to meet his gaze. “I’m Coptic, mate. My mum and dad have a painting over the TV of a bunch of demons trying to beat the shit out of St. Anthony. I’ve got a cousin out in Tuna el-Gebel who swears up and down that if you go too far out into the desert, you’ll run into monsters. My Teta always says an angel once saved her from getting hit by a bus in Mallawi when she was a kid. It’s the first family story I can remember hearing. I grew up believing in that stuff, like it was just a fact of life.” 

She paused and took a long sip of her coffee before continuing. “I mean, my relationship with my faith these days is . . . complicated. Half the time, I’ve no idea what I believe in anymore. But the point is, I have no doubt that there’s weird shit out there that we don’t understand, right? And that bookshop of yours is weird shit central. So, for whatever it’s worth, I don’t think you sound dumb. Or crazy.” 

Kyle couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to hug someone so badly, but he settled for a quivery smile and a quick nod of thanks. “You’re the best, Aabirah,” he finally managed. “Really.” 

She reached across the table to give him a gentle fist bump. “Hey, don’t worry, mate. We’ll get this sorted. So, let’s assume you’re right. Crowley is our demon, obviously, what with the temptation act and all. What about Mr. Fell?” 

Kyle frowned at the plant, realizing he wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I mean, he looks like the angel in the book, down to the ring and everything. And he gets all glowy and peaceful when he’s on about his fungi. But he’s also scary as shit sometimes.” 

“Well, that checks out. The first thing they always say when they show up in the Bible is ‘Don’t be afraid.’” 

“Yeah, but also, why the fuck would an angel be dating a demon?” 

“I mean,” said Aabirah, sipping her coffee, “the demon _is_ kind of a snack. Maybe he’s just got good taste.” 

Kyle groaned. “So, what am I supposed to do? Do I quit my job? Call an exorcist?” 

She drummed her fingers on the table, narrowing her eyes contemplatively. “I think I might have an idea, actually. But I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.” 

\--- 

Several hours later, Kyle stood awkwardly in a corner of the British Museum’s Department of Coins and Medals study room, trying to ignore the flickering buzz of a dim fluorescent light. It was well after closing, but Aabirah had obtained a guest pass for Kyle let him in with her key card. He was too stressed and preoccupied to follow her convoluted explanation of all the strings she’d had to pull to make this happen. 

She stood at the long study room table, busily spreading out a stack of photocopied articles and a pad of note paper. Also on the table were a wooden frame containing a brittle sheet of papyrus, a flat cotton-lined box with an assortment of mysterious metal objects resting in it, and a vial of holy water. 

“Are—are you sure you want to do this here?” Kyle asked, worrying at the sleeve of his jumper. 

Aabirah raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m sure as shit not doing it in our flat, mate. Besides,” and she made a sweeping gesture at the artifacts on the table, “all this stuff has to stay here.” 

“Well, are you sure you want to do it _now_?” It was cold in the study room, but his neck prickled with nervous perspiration. 

“Kyle, the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better. Besides, I had a hell of a time booking the room and getting all this stuff in here on such short notice. I owe Morgan big time on this one.” 

“She seems amazing. I’m sorry I messed up your date.” 

“Hey, forget it.” She grinned. “I’m already thinking up ways to make it up to her.” 

Kyle laughed nervously. His phone rang, and he jumped. It was Mr. Fell. Feeling miserably guilty, he dismissed the call and set the phone to silent before shoving it deep into his pocket. 

“Okay,” said Aabirah, flipping one of the articles open to a page that was marked with a little pink sticky note, “keep in mind, I have no idea what I’m doing or whether any of this is going to work, like, at all. But if it does, we’ve got to be ready, all right? Who knows what he’ll do. Or how long it’ll last.” 

“Urgh,” said Kyle. 

“Just, you know, assure him you’re only looking for information. And remember, you’re in charge. He can’t actually _make_ you do anything.” 

Kyle pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Are you sure? Because it kind of seems like he can, actually.” 

“That’s what he wants you to think. It’s like their whole schtick. Don’t let him get away with it. You ready?” 

“No.” 

“Here, put this on.” She handed him one of the objects from the box, a pendant in the form of a little metal tube hung on a decaying piece of twine. “It’s a protective amulet. Y’know, just in case. Don’t even worry about it. Make sure it touches your skin.” 

“Are you sure this is okay? I mean, like, wearing the artifacts . . . ?” 

“Absolutely not, mate. And nobody else’d better hear about it, either.” She pulled the framed scroll closer to herself. Kyle shuffled forward to get a better look at it. There was a simple drawing of a bound figure at the top, surrounded by a variety of mysterious shapes and symbols that he couldn’t make much sense of. Underneath that, the page was densely packed with a script that looked almost, but not quite, like Greek. At the bottom of the page, there was another drawing, this time of a snake looping around to bite its own tail. The space encircled by the body of the snake was filled with more text. Kyle shivered. 

It was, Aabirah had informed him, a 7th century Coptic magical papyrus from Asyut. Specifically, one that contained a spell for invoking the aid of a demon. 

“Now, my Lycopolitan’s a little rusty,” she muttered, lifting a corroded ring of iron from the box and setting it down on her notepad, “but I expect we can muddle through.” 

“Um,” said Kyle, hoping that making conversation would help him feel a little less like his skin was trying to crawl away and hide, “I’m kind of surprised there are any old Coptic demon summoning spells. I thought that was more of, I don’t know, a Satanic cult type of thing.” 

“Nah,” Aabirah replied, not looking up as she traced the outlines of the iron ring in pencil on a page in her notepad. “It’s more complicated than that. First off, this kind of magic goes way back to pre-Christian times. And entities like demons weren’t meant to be properly _evil,_ just chaotic. Dangerous if handled improperly. They serve a purpose in the balance of the cosmos, just like angels.” 

“Huh.” All that was interesting, but not exactly comforting, given the circumstances. He resisted the urge to fiddle with the amulet hanging around his neck. 

Aabirah lifted the iron ring away and studied her handiwork. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you know his name?” 

“You mean . . . Crowley?” He felt the hairs on his neck and arms rise just saying it out loud. 

“Yeah, but, like, his real name. Is there more to it than Crowley? Usually in these spells it’s a whole thing, with all these demonic epithets. Like, Theumatha, who dwells in Gehenna with fiery tongs, who torments liars and perjurers and dissolves their ligaments and yadda yadda, that sort of thing.” 

“Er, no. Mr. Fell just calls him Crowley. Oh! And sometimes ‘Serpent.’” 

She shrugged. “Okay, we’ll just have to make do with that, then.” She carefully wrote something down above the outer line of the traced ring, in a neat and elegant Coptic script. “‘Crowley Pehof,’” she intoned grandly. “Now, what do you want from him?” 

“Just, I don’t know, to know what they want with me, him and Mr. Fell?” He bunched his fingers in the hem of his jumper and twisted at it. “And I guess for him to leave me alone after all this. Yeah, that’d be fantastic.” 

“Right.” She wrote a few short lines of Coptic text within the inner circle of the ring, slowly and painstakingly. “There, that should do it, I hope.” She placed the iron ring back on top of the outline she had drawn and folded the paper up around it into a bundle, then dug a rubber band out of her bag and snapped it around the little package. 

“So, what happens next?” Kyle asked in a small voice, not particularly wanting to hear the answer. 

Aabirah frowned thoughtfully, checking the text on the papyrus. “Well, we don’t have an unused well here. Or the grave of someone who died an untimely death. Shit, this is like trying to make biscuits from a recipe off the internet without checking the pantry first.” 

She glanced around and spotted a wastebin by the door. “This’ll have to do, then,” she said, and dropped the little paper bundle in. It landed with a dull thump. “God, my supervisor would high-key lose her shit if she could see me right now. Okay, I’m going to say the invocation. Are you ready?” 

“Not really,” said Kyle miserably, “but go on.” 

She reached over and gave his clammy hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, mate. This probably isn’t going to work.” She picked up the vial of holy water, cleared her throat, and recited the text from the papyrus on the table. 

Kyle didn’t understand a word of it, but it still sounded deeply ominous. Aabirah’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact as always, but that almost made it worse, somehow. For about 30 seconds after she finished, the room was silent except for the humming and plinking of the fluorescent bulb. Kyle’s shoulders slowly began to relax, and he let out a shaky breath. 

“Ah, see?” said Aabirah, looking rather relieved herself. “What’d I tell—” 

There was an ear-splintering bang and a searingly bright flash of light. The stinging scent of sulfur filled the room. With a hideous ripping noise, a little tear formed in the fabric of the universe, and Crowley tumbled out of it. He landed hard on the table, crushing the glass of the framed papyrus with his hip and kicking over a chair as he scrabbled for purchase on the smooth surface. 

Aabirah screamed and jumped back, banging up against one of the metal cabinets that lined the walls of the study room. 

“Shit, shit, shit, nononono!” yelped Kyle, also scrambling backwards and managing to fall over the upended chair. 

“Jesus Christ, it fucking _worked_?!” Aabirah gasped, rushing to Kyle’s side and hauling him to his feet. 

“Oi," interjected Crowley, "what the _fuck_?” 

\--- 

For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, everyone froze, staring at one another. Crowley had pulled himself into a sitting position. His hair, normally immaculately styled, was mussed and disheveled. His sunglasses were askew, hanging half off his face. There were the eyes Kyle had glimpsed only briefly a few days before—luminous, golden, and utterly inhuman, with vertical pupils, like a cat’s. Or a snake’s. Apparently noticing Kyle’s stare, he reflexively shoved the glasses back into place. 

“So,” Crowley said at last, reaching under himself to grab the battered frame with the papyrus inside, “a Coptic summoning spell, eh? Haven’t seen one of these in a few centuriesssss.” His voice slipped into a guttural, sibilant whisper that crawled into Kyle’s skull and threatened to crack its way out from the inside. He tossed the frame aside, and it hit one of the cabinets and fell to the floor with a pitiful crunch. 

Aabirah grabbed Kyle and started pulling him towards the door at the far end of the room. His first thought was that she was trying to make an escape, which struck him as the only sensible idea anyone had had all evening. But instead, she put her back up against the door, bodily blocking the exit. “Don’t let him leave,” she whispered breathlessly. “We’ve got him, he’s just trying to scare us so he can get away.” 

_Well, it’s bloody working,_ Kyle wanted to say, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. 

“Bringsss back memoriesss, seeing this kind of magic again,” hissed Crowley. “Y’know, I used to hang around Ssssaint Anthony at his monastery out in Ssssuez back in the day. Nice guy. Remarkably difficult to tempt. I alwaysss liked his name.” His neck seemed to be getting longer, and glossy black flecks appeared around his temples and along his jaw. He flopped onto his chest and began slithering, bonelessly, along the length of the table toward them. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit Kyle, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“He can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you,” Aabirah kept murmuring. Kyle wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it; Crowley had made his way to the end of the table and was rearing up in a hideous parody of a yogic serpent pose. He bent his neck into a sideways S-shape and opened his mouth wide, revealing an uncountable number of needle-sharp teeth connected by glimmering threads of saliva. 

Aabirah screamed again, and Kyle would have too, if only he could get his voice working. He felt himself slipping down the wall behind him, his grip on consciousness growing dangerously tenuous. 

Aabirah’s grasp tightened on his arm, holding him up. “C’mon, Kyle, stay with me,” she pleaded. Then, she rounded on Crowley, wild-eyed, brandishing the vial of holy water in his face. “You! Back the _fuck_ up!” she roared. 

To Kyle’s profound relief and gratitude, Crowley immediately complied. He shrank back into his customary human shape and sat back on his haunches, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. He looked so abruptly and disarmingly subdued and normal that it was difficult to even comprehend that he’d been a slavering, eldritch monstrosity a scant couple of seconds ago. 

“ _We’re_ running the show here, got it?” Aabirah went on. “Kyle’s just going to ask you a few questions, and then everyone is going to be on their way without any trouble.” Her voice trembled and cracked, but she held her chin high and stared him down. If he hadn’t been so focused on being abjectly terrified, Kyle would have been terribly impressed. 

“Kyle, you all right?” she asked, not taking her eyes off Crowley. “Listen, don’t worry, he can’t hurt you. It says in the spell not to be afraid of the demon when he appears.” 

Kyle let out a hysterical little yelp of laughter. “Well, that’s easy for them to say, isn’t it?” he croaked. His voice sounded high and strange to his own ears. “You saw him just now!” 

“That was just a—a threat display.” She sounded more certain of that than she looked. “You just need to, er, connect with him, bind him to you, and then you can ask him whatever you want.” 

“W-what do you mean, ‘connect with him’?” demanded Kyle, pushing his back as far up against the wall as possible. “Connect how?” 

“Take his right hand,” she said, slowly and steadily, “and then kiss him.” 

“ _What!_ ” 

“Hey, I don’t make the rules! It was in the thing!” She flapped her hand wildly in the direction of the mangled frame on the floor. The words tumbled out of her in a frantic rush. “I’m—I’m sorry, I know that’s the last thing you want to do, but the spell won’t be complete until you do it, and if you don’t do it quick, I don’t know how long we can hold him here, and—” 

“Shouldn’t you do it?” he cut in, starting to hyperventilate. “You’re the one who summoned him!” 

“Yeah, on your behalf, mate! He’s _your_ demon!” 

“You’re also the one who said he was a snack.” 

“I meant in a purely aesthetic sense!” 

“Well, don’t everyone rush to volunteer all at once,” Crowley chimed in flatly. 

Aabirah glowered at him and gave the vial a vicious little shake. “Shut it,” she snarled between clenched teeth. “Kyle,” she pleaded quietly, “please. I don’t know what happens if you wait too long to complete the spell. Anyway, it’s not like you have to slip him any tongue. Pretend he’s your grandma. Just a quick peck, and you’re done.” 

“Okay,” he said, closing his eyes so hard he saw stars. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.” 

He took a few steadying breaths, then opened his eyes. Crowley sat perfectly, impossibly still. In fact, he didn’t even appear to be breathing. His expression was an unreadable blank. Fear rippled through Kyle like an electric current, and he shivered harder than he ever had in his life, but he forced himself to creep up to the table. He concentrated on the feeling of the amulet against his chest. It radiated a soothing warmth, and his fear dissipated ever so slightly. 

Slowly, he reached out and took Crowley’s hand. Crowley made no effort to resist, letting his hand rest limply in Kyle’s grasp. His skin felt unnaturally cool and smooth. 

Kyle moved closer, trying fruitlessly to control the chattering of his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not sure why he was apologizing. “I just . . . need to know.” 

Crowley nodded almost imperceptibly, then leaned in, bringing his face close to Kyle’s. Kyle pressed a light kiss to his cold lips and quickly pulled away. His mouth tingled, but he felt strangely calm. The violent shivering subsided. 

“All right, kid,” said Crowley, his voice tinged with weary resignation. “What do you want to know?”


	8. Līberum Arbitrium

Kyle realized that he was still holding Crowley’s hand, but he wasn’t inclined to let go of it. For now, Crowley seemed docile and almost gentle, but Kyle didn’t know how much of that was the influence of the binding magic, or what would happen if he broke their physical connection. His grip tightened a little around Crowley’s fingers. He glanced at Aabirah, who nodded encouragingly, but remained silent and wide-eyed. 

“I’m not even sure where to begin,” Kyle said, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. 

“I think we can skim lightly over the part where I’m a demon,” Crowley suggested wryly. 

“Right. Obviously. Er, and Mr. Fell . . . ?” 

“Aziraphale. An angel, yes. You’re his assignment.” 

“What—what does that mean, exactly?” 

Crowley leaned back and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, which, thankfully, looked perfectly human at the moment. “Well, it’s more or less as it sounds. Aziraphale’s meant to be down here influencing humanity to do good and all that sort of thing. Occasionally, he gets a directive from Heaven to do a specific bit of influencing on a particular human. In this case, you.” 

Kyle’s head swam. He couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have done to attract this kind of cosmic attention. It made him feel extraordinarily small and vulnerable, like a protozoan under a microscope. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why me?” 

“The word from upstairs is that you’re meant to do something terribly important. Only, it seems there’s a bit of concern about whether you can get your act together and do it. So, they put Aziraphale on the job, hoping he could light a fire under you, keep you from cocking it all up.”

There was a lengthy silence as this sank in. “Okay, all right,” Kyle said at last. “So, let’s assume there wasn’t some sort of huge mix-up, like they pulled the wrong file or something. This thing I’m supposed to do, this thing that’s so important that actual, literal forces of Heaven and Hell are messing around with my life because of it—it’s something to do with . . . fungi?” 

“Look at that,” said Crowley, flashing one of his excessively toothy grins. “The kid’s catching on.” 

“I don’t—” 

“The idea is that if you go on to university, pursue your interest in mycology, you could end up doing research that’ll change the world for the better. Don’t ask me what it is, nobody tells me anything. The angel seems to think it’s some sort of—” he waggled the fingers of his free hand vaguely “—'environmental remediation’ thing. Which, _Someone_ knows, you humans are gonna need if you keep carrying on the way you have been.” 

“And you’re trying to stop me doing that.” 

“W—ye—I mean,” spluttered Crowley, “it is my job, isn’t it, leading people astray, thwarting the will of Heaven and all that? And I have a bicentennial review coming up, so I have to be seen to at least _look_ like I’m getting something done.” 

Kyle stared at the floor for a moment, his mind racing. He thought of the heated arguments he’d overheard between Crowley and Mr. Fell. Something wasn’t adding up. “Mr. Fell—Aziraphale—wasn’t expecting you to interfere, though,” he pointed out. “He was really upset. It’s like you guys have some kind of, I don’t know, understanding, and you stepped over the line.” 

Crowley didn’t answer right away. His face was stony behind the protective shield of his sunglasses. Kyle waited, gripping his hand tightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and halting and tense, almost as if the words were being pulled out of him against his will. 

“Look . . . honestly, I don’t care one way or another what you do with your life, kid. You want to go out and change the world, good for you. It’s no skin off my nose. And you’re right, I’m not in the habit of thwarting Aziraphale. It’s bad optics for him, and the last thing I need is him getting reassigned and some wanker like Michael, or, Satan forbid, _Sandalphon,_ coming in to replace him.” He leaned in close, and Kyle could feel those golden eyes burning into him from behind the dark lenses. “Truth be told, I just want you out of his shop.” 

Kyle felt himself turn intensely red. “Wait, is this some kind of jealousy thing?” he blurted out. “Because Mr. Fell and I—it’s not—he doesn’t—I don’t—” 

Crowley curled his lip and waved off the suggestion impatiently. “What? Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” he scoffed. “’Course not. It’s just, I’ve seen him get like this before, and it never ends well for anybody.” 

“Get like what, exactly?” 

“You know, attached. Overinvested.” He sighed. “He loves humans, y’know, all of ‘em. Which is as it should be, it being his job and all. But usually, he’s clever enough to keep it in the abstract. He’s grown quite good, over the centuries, at maintaining a sort of professional detachment. But, every once in a while, he gets sloppy. Starts taking a personal interest. And then he gets carried away, he always does, and . . . and people get . . . hurt.” 

Kyle exchanged glances with Aabirah. She still gripped the vial of holy water tightly, but she was beginning to look less terrified and more curious. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want Kyle out of the bookshop because _you’re_ worried that someone’s going to get hurt?” 

Crowley squirmed. “Nyeh—like I said, it’s not like I particularly care about, er, people,” he said defensively, his fingers shifting uncomfortably in Kyle’s grip. “Believe me, ordinarily I enjoy a spot of human suffering as much as the next demon. But when the angel’s involved, it—it just makes everything awkward. You know?” 

“Nope, can’t say I relate at all,” Aabirah answered, fixing him with a stony gaze. “Care to elaborate?” 

Crowley let his head loll back in exasperation. “Fine. You ever hear of someone named William Laud?” 

“No,” said Kyle. 

“Yes,” said Aabirah, almost simultaneously. 

Crowley pointed at her approvingly with his free hand. “Knew you would’ve. Well, for Science Boy’s benefit, he was Archbishop of Canterbury under Charles I. Aziraphale was supposed to drop a few subtle hints in his ear about the universal accessibility of human salvation, maybe deliver a minor blessing and be on his way. But then he went and took a _liking_ to the guy. Soon, they’re having lunches together, poring over old manuscripts, discussing the most theologically sound placement of communion tables for hours on end. Next thing you know,” he went on, gesticulating expansively, “Laud’s running around like an idiot, telling everyone he’s got a divine mandate—which is a perfectly reasonable thing to think when you’ve had an angel blasting heavenly inspiration at you for years, I suppose—and, oooh, now everybody’s got to put their altar on the east end of the chancel! Calvinists all pissed off, people getting pilloried right and left . . . before you know it, there’s a bloody war on.”

Kyle looked helplessly at Aabirah. “Are you following any of this?” 

“1642,” she replied softly, realization dawning on her face. “The First English Civil War.” 

“Parliament beheaded Laud a couple years after,” Crowley concluded grimly. “Aziraphale blamed himself. Didn’t talk to me or even show his face for the next 57 years.” His shoulders sagged and he suddenly seemed very interested in the surface of the table he was sitting on. “I got a commendation out of it, of course,” he muttered. 

He looked so crestfallen that Kyle couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Without thinking, he gave the demon’s cold fingers a sympathetic squeeze. “That’s . . . wow, that’s awful,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Crowley didn’t answer, so he babbled on, trying to fill the painful silence. “But, you know, the world’s changed a lot since then. Parliament doesn’t really, um, behead people anymore, for one thing. And—and I don’t think anyone’s going to start a war if I study mushrooms wrong or whatever.” 

“I’m not saying it’s gonna literally play out like it did then, obviously,” said Crowley, exasperated. “But the way he’s going about this isn’t right. There’ll be consequences, is the point, and not the fun kind. Humans just aren’t designed to handle that level of divine meddling.” 

“But getting Kyle addicted to a shitty demonic app, that was just straight up aces,” Aabirah piped up reproachfully. “Totally wholesome of you.” 

Crowley shot her a withering look. “Yeah, well, what do you want? I’m a fuckin’ demon! Anyway, that was just supposed to be a temporary distraction to shake things up a little, get the angel’s attention. It would have run its course in a few days.” 

“Oh, sure. No harm done.” 

“And besides,” he went on, warming to the theme, “I hardly had to _do_ anything, that’s the beauty of it. Sure, I miracled up the stupid app, added a sprinkling of temptation just so he’d give it a shot. But the obsession, the sleepless nights, the irritability? That was all him. Just . . . human nature at work.” He turned the cold, blank gaze of his sunglasses on Kyle and added in a voice like crushed velvet, “I didn’t have to put a single thought in his head.” 

Kyle remembered the vivid, almost hallucinatory thoughts he’d experienced with Mr. Fell in the bookshop, and goosebumps danced to life along his spine and arms. He felt queasy. 

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. “All right. I get it. But . . . what am I supposed to do now? Do I just, like, quit and walk away? Pretend none of it ever happened? I mean, if I’m destined to become a mycologist or whatever anyway, do I just—” 

“Not desssstined!” Crowley snarled, suddenly menacing again. The fluorescent light above them crackled and dimmed. Kyle flinched, and he heard Aabirah gasp. Crowley leaned in close, his nose almost touching Kyle’s, a hint of gold gleaming behind his dark lenses. “Now, you lisssten to me, kid. It’s not destiny, it’s _potential_. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they’re selling you a load of bollocks.” 

Kyle nodded dumbly, not trusting his voice to work properly. He felt like a cold, wrung-out washcloth. 

“It’s your choice, always has been. And if you decide to walk that path, don’t make the mistake of thinking it’ll be easy,” Crowley continued, relentless. “No matter how much he may want to be, Aziraphale’s not gonna be there to hold your hand and miracle all the answers into your brain. You’ll have to work your skinny little arse off, and even then, I can almost guarantee you it’s not going to turn out like you think. There are going to be times when you know you’re right, but nobody listens to you. When you’re bursting with brilliant ideas, and no one gives a shit. Maybe your funding falls through, you don’t get that postdoc you were angling for, and your research never sees the light of day. Or, maybe, years later, some upstart doctoral student sees a bit of throwaway data you tossed into a footnote in an obscure journal somewhere, and they build a whole groundbreaking bloody thesis out of it. Meanwhile, you could go to your grave never knowing whether you succeeded or failed at whatever the Hell it is you’re even supposed to do.” 

He leaned back, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. “It’s a terrible burden to have to bear for the rest of your life, and I’m sorry it had to happen this way for you, kid. I really am. But here’s the thing. Really, all you can do—all any of us can do—is make the best choices you know how, and hope everything comes out more or less okay in the end.” He pointed upwards. “One of the greatest gifts She ever gave your lot was free will. I gave you a gift too, though—the capacity to figure out how to use it. It was a hell of lot of trouble, so do me a favour and don’t squander it by letting anyone else make your decisions for you. Not even an angel.” 

Before Kyle could begin to formulate an answer, or even completely process what he’d just heard, the atmosphere of the room shifted in a way that he instantly recognized. The dim light above them blazed back to life, buzzing loudly. 

“Oh, Jesus,” said Aabirah. “Kyle—” 

He turned, already knowing what he was going to see. Mr. Fell stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind him creating a soft halo around his head. His wings weren’t visible, but their silent presence filled the far end of the room; and while he wasn’t actually clutching a flaming sword in his clenched right hand, one certainly wouldn’t have looked out of place there. 

“Crowley!” he cried, his face a mask of worry. “What in Heaven’s name has been happening? What are you _doing_ here?” 

Crowley let out a deep sigh, then gave his companion a tired smile. “Hello, angel,” he said. “Not much. Just wrapping up your assignment.”


	9. Forward (and Afterward)

Kyle did not envy Crowley being on the receiving end of the Look that Mr. Fell was giving him. It was a sort of concentrated distillate of disappointment, topped off with a fresh dollop of betrayal. Kyle averted his eyes, feeling guilty by association. 

“Crowley,” Mr. Fell began, his voice thick with hurt, “after everything we spoke about, how could you—” 

And then he stopped. His eyes fell on Crowley’s right hand, still clasped in Kyle’s clammy grip. Kyle instantly let go, and then, thinking better of it, grabbed on again. Mr. Fell’s gaze had already shifted to the sad remains of the framed papyrus on the floor. His expression of disappointment gave way to one of growing dismay. 

“Oh,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “Oh, no. But how . . .” Then, he slowly turned to Aabirah, who looked as though she was trying her best to blend into the wall behind her. “ _Ms. Salib!_ ” 

“Ah ha ha, shit,” said Aabirah, plastering on her brightest smile. “Heeey, Mr. Fell!” 

Mr. Fell did not return the greeting. Kyle could sense his presence expanding, even though he didn’t appear visibly larger. He thought Aabirah looked, if possible, even more frightened than she had at the start of their confrontation with Crowley. 

“What on Earth were you thinking?” Mr. Fell demanded, his voice echoing strangely in the small space. “Have you any idea what kinds of forces you have been meddling with, child?” Before she could answer, he snatched the vial of holy water from her hand. “Someone could have gotten _hurt!_ ” 

“Mr. Fell, it wasn’t her fault,” Kyle blurted out. “I dragged her into all this, she was just trying to help—” 

Aabirah was speaking over him. “—whole summoning thing was totally my idea, actually. He deserved to know what’s going on, things were getting so weird—” 

“—weren’t going to hurt anybody, and we definitely don’t want any trouble. We just needed to—” 

“Quiet, both of you, please!” Mr. Fell cut in sharply. He banished the vial of holy water into the ether with a brisk snap of his fingers. Then he turned to look searchingly at Crowley, wringing his hands so hard that his knuckles stood out white. 

“Angel,” said Crowley, and Kyle was surprised again at how gentle he was capable of sounding, “it’s all right. Everyone’s fine. They just wanted to ask some questions.” 

Mr. Fell gave a quick nod and looked away. His expression wasn’t visible, but Kyle could feel a mixture of remorse, fear, and relief simmering off of him like heat from an old iron radiator. Then he shook himself, and threw back his shoulders, and the feeling receded. When he turned back toward Kyle, he was composed, a polite smile on his face. 

“Kyle,” he said, in measured tones, “do you have what you need?” 

Kyle nodded, wordlessly. 

“Then I must ask you and the young lady to kindly release my, er, associate. At once.” 

Kyle glanced at Aabirah, who shrugged and nodded. Slowly, he let go of Crowley’s hand. Half afraid that he’d turn into a snake monster again, he took a few steps back. “I release you?” he said, uncertainly. “Um, sorry about . . . all this. And thanks.” 

Crowley flexed his hand for a moment, then slipped off the table and stood, stretching his legs. “Sure, kid. I’d say ‘anytime,’ but on the other hand, let’s not.” 

“Oh, yeah. Agreed. Totally.” 

“Don’t forget what I said.” 

“I honestly don’t think I could.” 

Crowley stooped to pick up the smashed frame, thoughtfully regarding the mangled papyrus inside. “Well, I s’pose that won’t do, will it?” he muttered. Locking eyes with Mr. Fell—or at least, Kyle supposed that was what he was doing, it was hard to tell with the dark specs—he gently blew on the frame. With a series of odd pinging and popping sounds, rather like ice cubes cracking in a glass, it mended itself. 

“There you go,” he grunted, ignoring the meltingly fond look Mr. Fell was giving him as he handed the restored object to Aabirah. “Nice work, by the way, with the whole summoning bit. Been a while since I’ve had one of those. I almost missed it.” 

Aabirah let out her breath in a relieved rush. “Oh, wow,” she said, “you fixed it. Oh my God, thank you, that was actually really—” 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s not make a whole song and dance out of it,” Crowley grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and glaring at his shoes. “Right, I’m off. See you later, Angel.” 

And with that, he left almost as abruptly as he’d arrived, only through the door this time. 

\--- 

The ride home on the bus was quiet, but strangely cozy. Kyle’s mind was a churning tangle of questions, and he was sure Aabirah’s must be, too, but they were both content to sit with their thoughts in companionable silence. It wasn’t until they got back to the flat and collapsed onto the couch that either of them spoke. 

“Aabirah,” said Kyle, “that was . . .” 

“A bloody trip?” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” he laughed, then quickly grew sober. “No, I mean, the summoning. Standing up to Crowley, all that. You could’ve, I dunno, _died_. Or at least lost your job, if Crowley hadn’t fixed that thing. I just . . . thank you.” 

She wrapped an arm around him and pulled him into a crushing side hug. “Hey, listen. I have absolutely zero regrets, mate. I mean, how many chances do you get in a lifetime to experience anything that wild?” 

“If you’d asked me before today, I’d have said none,” he admitted, gratefully leaning into her embrace. 

“Exactly, bruh, exactly.” 

“So, um. Are you still planning to go back to the shop on Monday and fix Mr. Fell’s book?” 

“Ohhh, boy,” she said, laughing nervously. “I really should, shouldn’t I? Are you even allowed to break a promise to an angel?” 

“Well, sure, I think you _can_. If you want to, I mean. The whole point is we’ve got a choice, right?” 

She nodded slowly. “True. But I already flaked out on him once. And then there’s the whole kidnapping and interrogating his boyfriend bit. So, I figure I kind of owe it to him. Plus, let’s be real, I’m not going to pass up a chance to get another look at that bloody amazing book.” She regarded Kyle thoughtfully. “What about you? What’re you going to do now?” 

He suddenly felt very tired. He looked over at the rose cutting, sitting in its little pot on the dining table, and tried to focus his bleary eyes. “I . . . I don’t know. I think I need to sleep on it.” 

“Understandable. You have a couple things to think about.” 

\--- 

Despite how exhausted he felt, Kyle wasn’t sure if he’d actually be able to sleep. But the moment he pulled the covers up to his chin and turned his cheek against the cool pillow, he was out. 

After what seemed only a few moments, but may have been several hours, he sat up in bed. He was mildly surprised to realize that there was something beyond the door that was not the rest of his flat. The door was shut, so he couldn’t see it; he simply knew. 

Opening the door, he found the fungal forest on the other side—the same one he’d seen during his reverie in Mr. Fell’s shop. He hesitated for a moment, searching his thoughts and feelings. Then, when he was quite satisfied that it was his own decision to do so, he stepped through. 

This time, there was no warm Presence in the forest with him. It was still and luminous and empty. He took a moment to stand and appreciate the serene beauty of the place, then knelt down and raked his fingers through the soft earth and leaf litter at the base of the nearest tree. He inhaled the scents of moss and leaves, damp soil, and pungent mushrooms. It felt right, being here. 

But all that could wait; this place wasn’t going anywhere. Right now, he needed to find Mr. Fell. 

That wasn’t especially difficult. He knew exactly where to look. Mr. Fell was in his office, naturally, sitting at his desk, with his back to Kyle. All Kyle could see of him was a massive pair of neatly folded white wings, reflecting the light around them with a soft, pearlescent sheen. His books were piled up all around him, and the shelves stretched out on either side, away into the misty forest beyond. 

Kyle cleared his throat to announce his presence. “Hello, Mr. Fell.” 

“Kyle!” cried Mr. Fell, turning to greet him. He rose from the chair and ruffled his wings before folding them neatly behind his back. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He smiled warmly, but his sorrow was very old and very deep. Kyle was glad that he felt it only indirectly. 

“Hey, of course,” he said. “I just wanted to check in, you know, after everything that happened. And to apologize for summoning your—Crowley.” 

Mr. Fell fidgeted with his ring and cast his eyes downward. “Don’t give it another thought, my dear. I ought to be the one making amends, really. I-I’m afraid I made rather a mess of things.” 

“I really think everything’s going to be okay, though, Mr. Fell,” Kyle said earnestly. “I know it didn’t all go exactly how you planned, and it’s been super weird and all, but . . . I’m happy I met you. Both of you.” 

“Oh, I am _terribly_ glad to hear it.” 

“But,” said Kyle, “the thing is.” 

He didn’t have to finish the thought. “Yes,” agreed Mr. Fell, still looking down. “I rather expected--considering everything that's happened, I mean--that you might, er, give notice.” 

“I just think it’s better, you know, if I find my own way from now on.” 

“Of course. I agree completely.” 

For a few moments, they stood together and watched golden motes drift down on the beams of pale light that filtered through the forest canopy. 

“I’ll be back on Monday, though,” Kyle piped up, brightening. “I can help you with that new inventory, at least, before I go.” 

“Why, that would be lovely.” 

“Aabirah said she’d be back, too. To work on your book.” 

Mr. Fell pressed a hand to his heart, clearly moved. “Really? Oh, bless her,” he said warmly, and it made Kyle happy to think that he probably meant it quite literally. 

“There’s one thing I wondered, though. Why not fix the book yourself? Or ask Crowley to do it?” 

He seemed a bit taken aback by the question. “Well, I—because it would be _cheating_ , I suppose. After all, the book and its flaws are both earthly in origin. If I were to simply mend it all with a miracle, it wouldn’t really be the same book at all anymore, would it?” 

“No, I guess not.” 

“Anyway, it’s funny, but sometimes I feel there’s more grace in the simple, human business of working with one’s hands.” 

Mr. Fell flexed his fingers as he said this, and Kyle looked down at his own hands, which were still covered with a light dusting of soil and luminescent fungal spores. It reminded him of the little tin of inoculum from the shop, and the way the potting soil had felt as he sifted it through his fingers. 

“Oh, gosh, I almost forgot—I took your rose cutting,” he confessed. 

“Do keep it, please. As something to remember me by. Why, it’s coming along just beautifully, isn’t it?” 

Kyle looked down and realized that, somehow, he was holding the pot in his hands. The bud had opened into a perfect little blossom, streaked white and red like a peppermint candy. “I could never forget you Mr. Fell,” he said quietly. “But . . . thank you. I’ll take good care of it.” 

“I know you will,” said Mr. Fell, reaching out to give Kyle’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Now. Before you go, is there anything, anything at all, that I can do to ease your way on the path ahead?” 

“Er, well,” said Kyle, thoughtfully, “I will need another job, until I start university. Would you . . . be a reference for me?” 

Mr. Fell broke into one of his sunshine smiles, and the fog of sadness that surrounded him was tempered with a little burst of hope. “My dear boy, of course!” he said, his eyes twinkling, as the soft light of wakefulness began seeping in around them. “I just so happen to know of a place with an opening.”

***

Epilogue

_As Ava makes her way up the walkway to the little cottage, she’s arrested for a moment by the powerful aroma of roses. The garden beds that surround the cobblestone path are overflowing with them, and their scent is enough to compete with the heavy bunches of purple and white lilacs that nod and sway just on either side of the front door._

_She rings the bell, and an elderly man appears at the door, squinting at her in the mid-afternoon light. “May I help you?”_

_“Prof. Morley?” she says brightly. “I’m Ava Snell. I was at your lecture a few weeks back, if you remember. You gave me your address and invited me to drop in for tea some time, since we didn’t get to chat much after your talk.” She holds up his card, with the address scrawled on the back in smudged ballpoint pen ink. “I tried to call ahead, only I haven’t been able to reach you by mobile, and you said it was all right to just come by if I happened to be—”_

_“Oh! Of course, Dr. Snell,” he says, recognition dawning on his face. “I really ought to replace that bloody phone, I swear it doesn’t ring half the time. That or the damned hearing aids . . . Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”_

_Ava follows him in, smiling. He reminds her rather a lot of her father._

_The cottage is as cozy inside as out. The walls are lined with bookshelves. She spots at least four vases filled with cut flowers standing here and there about the room. A little grey cat meanders in and winds around her ankles for a moment before flopping down in a sunbeam near the old stone hearth._

_Prof. Morley’s muffled voice drifts in from the kitchen, where she can hear him tinkering with cups and saucers. “So,” he says, “interested in how much vitamin D we can wrangle out of those chantarelles, are you?”_

_“Well, yes,” she calls back, pausing to glance through a dog-eared volume called _The Allure of Fungi_ that’s sitting out on the coffee table. “I loved your lecture, absolutely fascinating. But actually, I really wanted to talk about your work with mycorrhizal inoculants.” _

_The only answer from the next room is the quiet clinking of china. She’s not sure if he heard her._

_“My research is in carbon sequestration,” she continues, speaking a little louder. “And my firm is very interested in building on your soil amendment methods. You achieved some truly impressive fungal colonization results. We think that, with a few modifications—”_

_His head pokes through the doorway, his grey eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then, he begins to laugh. Puzzled, Ava smiles back, a little tentatively._

_“Sorry,” he says after a moment. “It’s just that it’s been a _very_ long time since I did any work along those lines.” _

_“I realize it’s an older publication,” she replies, “but it holds up. We’ve already done a couple of controlled trials and reproduced your results. Frankly, it should’ve been adopted as industry standard decades ago.”_

_“Oh, goodness, nobody was paying any attention to what I was doing back then. I did most of those experiments when I was working summers at World’s End Nurseries in Chelsea. Good lord, I published it in the _Journal of Undergraduate Research._ How did you even find it?” _

_“Well, it was sort of by chance, actually. I struck up a conversation with this lovely woman at the Microbiomes conference in Soho last month. She said she was a retired conservator at the British Museum. We got to talking about fungi, and your name came up.”_

_“Aabirah!” he beams. “Of course. I really ought to shoot her a line.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Funny, she’s spent her whole life fighting fungi, and I’ve spent mine helping them grow better.”_

_“Ah! So, you’re nemeses, then,” Ava remarks, returning his infectious grin._

_He chuckles. “Exactly. But we make it work, somehow.” He falls quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “Listen,” he finally says, “why don’t we take the tea things out into the garden? I’d very much like to show you my roses.”_

FIN


End file.
